'OHNR.CARLING 


L 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Itrs.   Ben  B.  Lindsey 


THE  WEIRD   PICTURE 


THE 
WEIRD  PICTURE 


By 

JOHN   R.   CARLING 

Author  of  "  The  Shadow  of  the  Czar," 
"The  Viking's  Skull,"  etc. 


Illustrated  by  Cyrus  Cuneo 


Boston 

Little   Brown,  and  Company 
1905 


Copyright,  1905, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Published  May,  1905. 


S.  J.  PARKHILL  <t  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  RED  STAIN i 

II    THE  VEILED  LADY 16 

III  THE  WEDDING  MORNING 32 

IV  WAITING! 45 

V  THE  ARTIST  PAINTS  A  NOTABLE  PICTURE        .         .       58 

VI  THE  MAN  AT  THE  CONFESSIONAL   ....       75 

VII  WHAT  THE  "  STANDARD  "  SAID  OF  THE  PICTURE      .      99 

VIII  HIGH  MASS  AND  WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  IT        .        .114 

IX  THE  ARTIST  FAILS  TO  SECURE  A  MODEL    .         .         .128 

X    GHOST  OR  MORTAL? 143 

XI    MORE  OF  THE  PICTURE 164 

XII  THE  FIGURE  IN  THE  GREY  CLOAK        .         .         .186 

XIII  WHAT  THE  ARTIST'S  PORTFOLIO  REVEALED        .         .     207 

XIV  THE  MYSTERIES  OF  THE  STUDIO      .        .        .        .231 
XV  THE  DENOUEMENT!       .                                          .     251 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Before   my  uncle   could   prevent   her   she   had 

snatched  the  letter  from  him  "...  Frontispiece 

"  The  figure  turned  to  meet,  but  not  to  greet  me. 

It  was  my  brother's  face  I  saw"      .         .         .  Page         10 

"  <  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  there  was  a  black  thing 

bending  over  me '"          .         .         .         .  "  183 

"  His  head  sunk  fonvard  on  his  breast    and   his 

crooked  fingers  clawing  at  the  air  "          .         .     "  259 


The  Weird  Picture 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   RED   STAIN 

"  BELGRAVE  SQUARE,  November  28th. 
"  DEAR  FRANK, — Surely  you  are  not  going  to  spend 
a  third  Christmas  at  Heidelberg!  We  want  you  with 
us  in  good  old  England.  My  marriage  with  Daphne 
is  fixed  for  Christmas  Day,  and  I  shall  not  regard  the 
ceremony  as  valid  unless  you  are  my  best  man.  So 
come — come — COME  !  No  time  to  say  more.  You  can 
guess  how  busy  I  am.  Write  or  wire  by  return. — 

Yours'  "  GEORGE." 

Such  was  the  letter  received  by  me,  Frank  Willard, 
student  in  Odenwald  College,  Heidelberg,  on  the  first 
day  of  the  last  month  of  the  year.  The  writer  of  the 
letter  was  my  brother,  a  captain  in  the — something.  I 
take  a  pride  in  not  remembering  the  number  of  the 
regiment,  for  I  am  a  man  of  peace  and  hate  war  and  all 
connected  therewith,  excepting,  of  course,  my  soldier- 
brother,  though  my  affection  for  him  had  somewhat 
waned  of  late  years,  for  a  reason  that  will  soon  appear. 

The  letter  was  accompanied  by  a  portrait  of  George, 
an  exquisite  little  painting  in  oils,  representing  him  in 
full-dress  uniform.  A  glance  at  the  mirror  showed  how 
much  I  suffered  by  comparison.  He  looked  every  inch 


The  Weird  Picture 

a  hero.  I  looked — well,  no  matter.  In  the  lottery  of 
love  the  prizes  are  not  always  drawn  by  the  hand 
some.  The  Daphne  referred  to  was  our  cousin,  a 
maiden  with  raven  hair,  dark  blue  eyes,  and  a  face  as 
lovely  as  a  Naiad's. 

Her  father,  Gerald  Leslie,  was  a  wealthy  city  mer 
chant,  who,  after  the  death  of  our  parents,  became  the 
guardian  of  George  and  myself,  bestowing  on  us  a 
warmth  of  affection  and  a  wealth  of  pocket-money  that 
made  the  transference  to  his  roof  seem  rather  desirable 
than  otherwise,  my  own  father  having  been  of  a  some- 
.what  cold  and  undemonstrative  temperament.  How 
ever,  de  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum. 

My  first  impulse  on  reading  the  above  letter  was  to 
pen  a  refusal  to  the  invitation. 

"  What !  "  it  may  be  said.  "  Refuse  to  be  present 
at  your  brother's  wedding  ?  Refuse  to  return  home  to 
old  England  at  Christmas-tide  ? — a  season  dear  to  every 
Englishman  from  its  sacred  and  festive  associations. 
'  Breathes  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead,'  etc." 

Exactly.  My  soul  zvas  dead,  both  to  the  joys  of 
Christmas  and  of  Daphne's  wedding.  Four  words  will 
explain  the  reason :  I  myself  loved  Daphne.  And  I 
had  told  her  so,  only  to  find  that  she  had  given  her 
heart  to  my  brother  George. 

I  am  not  going  to  fill  this  chapter  with  the  ravings  of 
disappointed  love.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  in  my  despair 
I  left  England,  determined  to  see  Daphne  no  more, 
and  betook  myself  to  the  university  of  Heidelberg  with 
the  hope  of  finding  oblivion  in  study. 

Greek  choruses,  strophes,  antistrophes,  and  epodes, 
are,  however,  all  very  well  in  their  way,  but  they  are  a 
sorry  substitute  for  love.  At  any  rate,  they  did  not 
make  me  forget  Daphne.  Her  sweet  face  continued  to 
haunt  me,  and,  in  the  despairing  and  romantic  mood  of 


The  Red  Stain 

a  Manfred,  I  spent  many  a  night  on  the  mountains 
around  Heidelberg,  watching  the  stars  rise,  and  brood 
ing  over  my  unrequited  love. 

Thus  my  brother's  letter  was  far  from  being  a  source 
of  pleasure  to  me,  though  it  was  kindly  meant  on  his 
part  (for  he  was  ignorant,  so  I  subsequently  learned, 
of  my  own  love  for  Daphne).  His  invitation,  trans 
lated  into  the  language  of  my  thoughts  simply  meant, 
"  Come  and  be  more  unhappy  than  you  are !  " 

Deep  down  in  my  heart  I  had  cherished  the  belief 
that  something  unforeseen  would  happen  to  break  off 
George's  engagement.  The  sands  of  that  hope  were 
now  fast  running  out.  The  25th  of  the  month  would 
remove  Daphne  from  me  forever. 

For  several  days  I  fought  with  my  despair,  but  at 
last  I  resolved  to  be  present  at  the  wedding. 

"  I  may  as  well  play  the  stoic,"  I  muttered,  "  and 
accept  the  inevitable.  Perhaps  the  fact  of  seeing 
Daphne  actually  married  to  another  will  cure  me  of 
this  folly." 

Curiosity,  also,  to  see  how  Daphne  would  behave  on 
the  occasion  was  an  additional  motive  for  going;  and, 
poor  fool  that  I  was,  I  thought  of  the  trembling  hand 
clasp,  the  blush,  and  the  sweet  glance  that  a  woman 
seldom  fails  to  bestow  on  the  man  who  has  once  ex 
pressed  his  love  for  her. 

Christmas  Eve,  midnight,  found  me  on  board  the 
packet-boat  steaming  out  of  Calais  Harbour.  The  sea 
was  singularly  smooth,  and  there  was  in  the  air  that 
which  gave  promise  of  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  ere  long. 
Wrapped  in  my  cloak,  I  leaned  over  the  side  of  the 
vessel,  listening  to  the  silver  carillon  of  the  church-bells 
pealing  forth  from  every  steeple  and  belfry  in  the  town 
the  glad  tidings  that  the  sweet  and  solemn  morn  of  the 
Nativity  had  dawned.  Faintly  and  more  faintly  the 

3 


The  Weird  Picture 

chimes  sounded  over  the  wide  expanse  of  glimmering 
sea,  till  they  were  finally  lost  in  the  distance. 

At  first  my  thoughts  were  gloomy.  To  play  the  stoic 
is  never  a  very  pleasant  task.  Yet  I  was  not  totally 
abandoned  to  despair.  A  ray  of  hope  played  over 
my  mind,  and,  as  the  distance  that  separated  me  from 
Daphne  diminished,  this  hope  gradually  became 
stronger  and  stronger.  Arz7  dcsperandum  should  be  my 
motto.  The  wedding  had  not  taken  place  yet;  wed 
dings  have  been  broken  off  at  the  very  altar:  why 
should  not  hers  be?  Foolish  though  it  may  seem,  I 
began  to  nurse  the  pleasing  idea  that  Fate  might  yet 
transfer  Daphne  to  my  arms.  As  if  my  wish  had  be 
come  a  certainty,  I  trod  the  deck  of  the  Channel 
steamer  with  exultant  step,  refusing  to  go  below,  al 
though  the  wintry  flakes  were  falling  now  in  steady 
earnest.  Such  is  the  power  of  hope  over  the  hu 
man  mind  ;  or  is  it  something  more  than  a  poetic  fiction 
that  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before  ? 

I  was  roused  at  length  from  dreamland  by  the  sight 
of  Dover  Harbour  looming  through  the  snow-dotted 
gloom  of  night. 

At  the  pier-head  a  lantern  shone,  and  among  the 
persons  assembled  beneath  its  light  a  soldierly-looking 
figure  in  a  long  grey  coat  was  visible.  It  was  my 
brother  George.  His  presence  on  the  pier  seemed,  in 
my  excited  state  of  mind,  a  confirmation  of  the  daring 
hope  I  had  begun  to  entertain. 

"  The  dear  fellow  !  "  I  murmured.  "  He  has  come 
down  expressly  to  meet  me,  and  to  resign  Daphne  to 
me." 

As  our  vessel  drew  alongside  the  pier  I  waved  my 
hand  to  him,  but  at  this  greeting  he  instantly  van 
ished.  This  was  certainly  a  surprise.  Why  did  he 
not  await  my  landing? 


The  Red  Stain 

I  was  the  first  to  quit  the  steamer,  and,  emerging 
from  the  inspection  of  the  Revenue  officials,  I  looked 
eagerly  around  for  my  brother.  He  was  not  to  be  seen 
on  any  part  of  the  pier. 

Was  I  mistaken  as  to  the  identity?  The  figure,  the 
face,  the  very  carriage — all  seemed  to  be  his.  Stay! 
Was  this  an  ocular  illusion!  Had  my  mind  been 
dwelling  so  earnestly  on  my  brother  as  to  stamp  on  the 
retina  of  my  eye  an  image  that  had  no  corresponding 
objective  reality  outside  myself?  Would  this  account 
for  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  the  figure  had  van 
ished? 

I  would  soon  put  this  theory  to  the  test.  If  George 
had  come  by  train  from  London,  the  servants  at  the 
station  would  surely  retain  some  remembrance  of  him. 
If  others  had  seen  the  figure  in  the  grey  cloak,  it 
would  be  a  proof  that  my  sense  of  sight  had  not  de 
ceived  me.  I  entered  the  station  and  sought  knowledge 
from  the  first  porter  I  met,  a  tired-looking  youth,  with  a 
sprig  of  holly  stuck  in  his  buttonhole,  who  gaped 
vacantly  at  my  questions  till  the  glitter  of  a  silver  coin 
imparted  a  certain  degree  of  briskness  to  his  faculties. 

"  A  military-looking  gent,  sir  ?  Yes,  there  was  one 
on  the  platform  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"  Describe  him,"  said  I  bluntly,  as  my  fellow  passen 
gers  from  the  boat  began  to  crowd  into  the  station. 
"What  was  he  like?" 

I  was  desirous  of  drawing  a  description  of  the  "  mil 
itary-looking  gent"  from  the  porter's  unassisted  mem 
ory  rather  than  of  suggesting  personal  details,  to 
which,  in  his  half-sleepy  state  and  in  his  desire  to  get 
rid  of  me,  he  would  doubtless  subscribe  assent. 

"  Well,  sir,  he  wasn't  very  tall — at  least,  not  for  a 
soldier ;  but  then  Bonaparte  wasn't " 

"  Oh,  hang  Bonaparte !     Go  on,"  I  said  snappishly, 


The  Weird  Picture 

for  I  was  cold,  hungry,  and  tired — conditions  that  do 
not  tend  to  improve  one's  temper. 

"  He  was  wearing  a  long  grey  cloak  and  had  a 
travelling-bag  with  him,  marked  with  the  letters 
"  G.W."  I  noticed  the  bag  particularly,  because  it 
came  open  as  he  was  stepping  from  the  carriage.  My ! 
didn't  he  shut  it  sharp !  quick  as  lightning,  as  if  he 
didn't  want  any  one  to  see  what  was  inside.  I  offered 
to  carry  it  for  him,  and  he  told  me " 

"What?" 

"  To  go  to  the  devil !  " 

"  You  didn't  go,  I  see,"  said  I,  attempting  to  be 
facetious.  "  Well,  go  on.  What  about  the  man's 
face?" 

"  Face  ?  He  looked  rather  white  and  excited ;  per 
haps  because  he  was  in  a  passion  with  the  carriage- 
door  ;  it  didn't  open  easily.  He  had  a  dark  scar  on  his 
temple,  and " 

"Left  or  right  temple?" 

"  Left." 

George  had  a  dark  scar  on  his  left  temple,  the  relic 
of  a  fall  from  a  cliff  at  Upsala.  His  initials  too  were 
"  G.W."  Good !  The  figure  on  the  pier  was  not  an 
illusion,  then.  The  porter's  words  convinced  me  that 
the  man  he  had  seen  was  my  brother. 

"How  long  is  it  since  he  was  here?"  I  inquired. 

"  How  long?  "  repeated  the  official,  jerking  his  head 
backwards  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Station  clock. 
"  Only  ten  minutes  since.  He  came  down  by  the  ex 
press  from  Charing  Cross.  It  was  a  few  minutes  late 
owing  to  the  snow." 

"  Do  you  know  if  he  had  a  return  ticket?  " 

"  That  I  can't  say." 

"  What's  the  next  train  to  London  ?  " 

"  One  just  on  the  move  now,  sir.    The  next  in  two 


The  Red  Stain 

hours'  time.  Better  travel  by  this  one.  The  next  is 
sure  to  be  a  slow  one,  this  snowstorm  is  so  heavy.  Go 
ing  by  this  one,  sir?"  he  continued,  swinging  open  a 
carriage-door  as  he  saw  my  hesitation.  "  Only  a  min 
ute  to  spare." 

"  I — I  don't  know  yet.  Hold  my  portmanteau  for  a 
moment." 

I  quickly  ran  the  whole  length  of  the  departing 
train,  but  the  grey  coat  was  not  in  any  of  the  car 
riages.  This  train  was  the  one  I  should  have  trav 
elled  by,  its  departure  being  timed  for  the  arrival 
of  the  Continental  boat;  but  I  now  resolved  to  delay 
my  journey  till  the  next,  in  order  to  travel  in  company 
with  my  brother,  for  George  must  return  by  the  latter 
train,  otherwise  he  would  be  barely  in  time  to  meet 
the  wedding-party  in  the  Church  at  half-past  nine. 
I  returned  to  the  porter,  who  was  surveying  me  with 
a  curiosity,  the  reason  of  which  soon  became  evident, 
and  said : 

"  I  shall  travel  by  the  next  train.  Take  charge  of 
my  portmanteau  until  then." 

"Right  you  are,  guv'nor!  What's  he  done? 
Forgery?  Murder?  He  looks  quite  capable  of  it." 

"Done?  Who?"  I  said,  astounded  at  this  sudden 
familiarity. 

"  Why,  the  military  cove ! "  returned  the  youth. 
"  It's  no  go ;  I  can  see  you're  a  'tec  with  half  an 
eye." 

I  suppose  the  half-eye  that  had  discovered  so  much 
was  his  right  one,  for  he  proceeded  to  diminish  it  by 
screwing  it  up  into  a  wink  expressive  of  the  penetra' 
tion  of  its  owner. 

;'  The  gentleman  whom  you  think  capable  of  forgery 
and  murder  is  my  brother,  Captain  Willard,  of  the — 
the  never  you  mind ;  and  if  you  give  me  any  of  your 


The  Weird  Picture 

insolence,  I'll  report  you  to  the  authorities,"  I  said, 
wrathfully. 

The  porter,  who  had  evidently  been  drinking,  was 
a  little  taken  aback,  to  judge  by  his  ejaculation  of 
"  Oh  lor ! "  and  as  I  walked  off  with  my  grandest  air, 
I  heard  him  mutter : 

"  His  brother !  yes,  and  like  him,  too !  The  one 
sends  me  to  the  devil,  and  the  other  threatens  to  report 
me  to  the  station-master.  Oh,  they're  brothers,  sure 
enough  !  By  your  leave,  there  !  " 

A  multitude  of  questions  came  surging  over  my 
mind.  What  was  George  doing  at  Dover  only  a 
few  hours  before  his  wedding  ?  Obviously  his  purpose 
was  not  to  meet  me,  since  he  had  avoided  me.  Why? 
Could  it  be  that  for  some  strange  reason  he  was 
deserting  Daphne  on  her  bridal  morning? — a  thought 
that  caused  my  pulses  to  throb  quickly.  Was  it  shame, 
or  guilt,  that  had  kept  him  from  facing  me?  Oh,  if 
I  could  but  find  him,  and  learn  the  truth  from  his 
lips! 

"  On  the  platform  ten  minutes  ago." 

Absurd  as  the  idea  may  seem,  I  resolved  to  walk 
the  streets  of  Dover  during  the  next  two  hours,  on  the 
chance  of  meeting  him. 

The  weather  was  of  the  character  that  popular 
fancy  rather  than  historic  fact  has  ascribed  to 
the  Yuletides  of  bygone  days  under  the  name  of  "  an 
old-fashioned  Christmas."  The  snow  was  lying  several 
inches  deep  in  the  streets,  deadening  the  sound  of  my 
footfalls.  The  big  flakes,  still  falling,  blinded  my 
vision  with  their  whirling  eddies.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be 
seen  out  of  doors.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  save 
the  sea  splashing  faintly  against  the  harbour  walls. 
The  town  lay  draped  in  white,  a  city  of  the  dead. 
Not  knowing  in  what  direction  to  proceed,  I  walked 

8 


The  Red  Stain 

on  as  chance  directed,  without  seeing  the  person  I 
was  in  quest  of.  Presently,  as  I  was  turning  a  corner, 
a  figure,  white  as  a  ghost  from  head  to  foot,  came  into 
sight,  startling  me  for  the  moment.  It  was  a  constable, 
and  I  questioned  him. 

"  I  saw  a  man  in  a  grey  cloak  go  by  just  three 
minutes  ago." 

"  Carrying  bag  marked  '  G.W.'?  " 

"  Carrying  a  bag,  sir,"  he  replied,  with  marked  em 
phasis  on  what  the  grammarians  were  wont  to  call  the 
indefinite  article.  "  I  didn't  notice  any  letters  on  it. 
If  you  hurry  you'll  catch  him  up.  He  went  that  way," 
pointing  with  his  hand.  "Is  anything  the  matter? 
Can  I  be  of  assistance  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  I  returned  sharply,  won 
dering  whether  he,  too,  like  the  railway-porter,  thought 
that  my  brother  was  a  fugitive  from  justice. 

"  No  offence,  sir,  but  your  friend  seems  to  need  look 
ing  after.  He  is  either  mad  or  dying.  His  eyes  burned 
like  live  coals,  and  his  face  was  as  white  as  this  snow 
here.  I  called  out '  A  rough  night,  sir ! '  but  he  glided 
on,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  and  taking  no  no 
tice  of  me." 

These  words  increased  my  misgivings.  I  thanked 
the  constable  and,  declining  his  proffered  services, 
rushed  on  in  the  direction  indicated  by  him.  A  line  of 
footprints  in  the  snow  served  to  guide  me,  and  follow 
ing  their  course,  I  presently  found  myself  in  a  street 
whose  semi-detached  villas  were  fronted  with  quiet 
unpretentious  gardens  separated  from  the  pavement  by 
stone  balustrades. 

There  he  was !  Half-way  down  the  street,  standing 
beneath  the  light  of  a  gas-lamp,  was  a  cloaked  man 
apparently  taking  a  survey  of  a  house  facing  the  lamp, 
while  shaking  the  snow  from  himself.  I  hurried  for- 


The  Weird  Picture 

ward  to  greet  him,  my  feet  making  no  sound  on  the 
soft  snow. 

"  George !  "  I  cried  eagerly  and  breathlessly  when 
within  a  few  paces  of  him.  "  George !  " 

The  figure  turned  to  meet,  but  not  to  greet  me.  It 
was  my  brother's  face  I  saw,  but  so  haggard  and  dis 
figured  by  lines  of  pain  as  to  be  scarcely  recognis 
able.  His  eyes  frightened  me  as  they  gleamed  in 
the  lamplight;  so  glassy,  so  unnatural  was  their 
stare. 

With  dread  at  my  heart  I  tried  to  clasp  his  hand, 
but  he  waved  me  back  with  a  gesture  suggestive  of 
surprise,  despair,  terror,  shame,  grief — any  or  all  of 
these  might  have  prompted  the  singular  motion  of  his 
arm.  If  I  had  come  upon  him  in  the  very  act  of  mur 
der,  he  could  not  have  shown  greater  agitation.  The 
fingers  of  his  lefthandrelaxed  their  grip,  and  the  valise 
they  were  holding  dropped  silently  upon  the  snow.  His 
action  said  more  plainly  than  words :  "  Go  back ! 
go  back !  There  is  that  happening  of  which  you  must 
know  nothing." 

To  my  mind  there  could  be  but  one  cause  of  his  emo 
tion,  a  cause  as  awful  to  me  as  to  him,  and  it  burst 
from  my  lips  in  a  hoarse  cry. 

"  Good  heavens,  George !  Surely — surely  Daphne 
isn't  dead?" 

There  was  no  reply.  The  laxity  of  his  limbs  and  his 
reclining  attitude  against  the  iron  column  showed  that 
he  had  scarcely  strength  to  stand.  Then  a  sudden  gust 
of  wind  blew  aside  both  his  cloak  and  his  coat,  expos 
ing  his  white  vest  to  view.  And  there  upon  that  vest, 
plain  to  be  seen,  was  a  red  stain  large  and  round !  For 
one  moment  only  was  it  visible  in  the  fitful  light  of  the 
gas-lamp;  the  next,  the  folds  of  his  cloak  enveloping 
him  again,  concealed  it  from  view. 

10 


1 


Cvi^f/S 


The  Red  Stain 

"What  is  the  matter?  Why  don't  you  speak?"  I 
cried,  and  overcoming  the  vague  terror  that  had  pos 
sessed  me,  I  stepped  forward. 

But  before  I  could  touch  him,  he  gave  a  swift  glance 
around,  apparently  seeking  some  way  of  escape,  and 
suddenly  snatching  up  the  valise,  he  darted  through  the 
gate-way  opposite  him.  Hurrying  up  the  garden-path, 
he  ascended  a  flight  of  steps,  and  while  I  was  still 
gazing  after  him  in  amazement,  he  disappeared  within 
the  portico  that  gave  entrance  to  the  house. 

Here  was  a  strange  affair.  George,  on  his  wedding- 
morn  in  a  town  far  distant  from  his  bride,  trying  to 
avoid  me,  his  brother,  after  having  invited  me  to  be 
his  best  man !  A  second  explanation  of  his  conduct 
occurred  to  me  and  found  its  way  to  my  tongue. 

"  He  is  mad !  "  and  I  hesitated  to  follow.  It  is  not 
an  infrequent  thing  for  the  insane  to  think  their  dearest 
friends  their  foes.  And  this  thought  begot  another, 
more  fearful  still  to  me; 

To  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

His  wild  air  and  the  red  stain  on  his  breast  might 
well  be  testimony  to  some  tragedy ;  in  a  fit  of  insane 
jealousy  he  had  killed  Daphne!  Paralyzed  by  the 
idea  I  leaned,  as  he  had  leaned  before  me,  against  the 
lamp-post,  with  the  words,  "  Daphne  dead ! "  ringing 
in  my  ears. 

I  broke  from  the  spell  of  terror  imposed  on  me  by 
my  own  fancy,  and  prepared  to  follow  my  brother. 
Putting  aside  the  fears  for  my  own  safety  with  the 
thought  that  in  case  of  an  attack  my  cries  would  sum 
mon  the  inmates  of  the  neighbouring  houses  to  my  aid, 
I  cautiously  groped  my  way  to  the  dark  portico,  not 
without  a  dread  that  his  wild  figure  might  spring  out 

II 


The  Weird  Picture 

upon  me ;  but,  on  mounting  the  snowy  steps  I  discov 
ered  that  the  portico  was  empty,  and  the  front  door  of 
the  house  securely  shut. 

I  had  heard  no  noise  of  knocking — no  sound  of  the 
opening  or  closing  of  a  door ;  and  yet,  if  George  had 
not  passed  the  threshold,  where  was  he  ?  This  was  the 
second  time  the  figure  had  eluded  me.  Was  it  after  all 
an  apparition? 

The  improbability  of  seeing  my  brother  in  such  a 
place  and  at  such  an  hour,  his  obstinate  silence  to  my 
appeals,  his  weird  aspect,  the  mysterious  manner  in 
which  he  had  vanished,  seemed  to  favour  this  hypoth 
esis.  Was  this  his  wraith  sent  to  apprise  me  of  his 
death?  The  next  moment  I  was  smiling  at  the  idea. 
A  being  that  is  merely  a  figment  of  the  brain  cannot 
be  credited  with  the  power  of  making  footprints  in 
snow,  yet  deep  footprints  there  were  leading  up  the 
steps,  and  terminating  at  the  threshold  of  the  door; 
footprints  newly-formed,  whose  shape  and  size  as 
sured  me  were  not  my  own. 

I  drew  back  to  take  a  survey  of  the  house  in  which 
George  had  evidently  taken  refuge.  A  brief  inspection 
of  the  dwelling  failed  to  afford  any  clue  as  to  the 
character  of  the  occupants.  The  blinds  were  drawn 
at  every  window,  and,  as  might  be  expected  at  so 
early  an  hour,  no  light  was  anywhere  visible.  I 
knocked  at  the  door  once,  twice,  thrice.  There  was 
no  reply.  Then,  seizing  the  knocker  with  a  vigorous 
grasp,  I  executed  a  cannonade  with  it,  loud  enough 
to  rouse  not  the  inmates  of  that  house  only,  but  those 
of  the  whole  street.  At  length  my  summons  met  with 
recognition  from  within.  The  door  slowly  opened. 
Fully  expecting  to  meet  my  brother,  his  eyes  aglow 
with  passion,  I  drew  back  with  arms  upraised  to  pro 
tect  myself  from  his  rush,  but  nothing  more  terrible 

12 


The  Red  Stain 

met  my  gaze  than  a  venerable  old  man  with  silver 
hair,  who  shivered  visibly  as  the  cold  wind  drifted 
the  snow  into  the  passage.  The  lamp  that  he  carried 
in  his  left  hand,  while  he  shielded  it  from  the  draught 
with  his  right,  shone  full  on  his  face,  which  had 
such  an  air  of  quiet  dignity  that  I  felt  quite  ashamed 
of  myself  for  having  knocked  so  loudly.  The  disorder 
of  his  dress  told  me  that  he  had  but  just  risen  from 
his  bed. 

The  contrast  between  his  grave  demeanour  and  my 
excited  bearing  would  have  amused  the  spectator,  had 
any  been  present.  It  struck  me  as  a  reversal  of  posi 
tions.  I  had  expected  to  see  a  madman ;  he  certainly 
took  me  for  one,  standing  there  as  I  did,  breathless  and 
silent  in  the  wild  snowy  night,  with  my  arms  extended 
in  front  of  me. 

Too  surprised  to  speak,  I  looked  along  the  length  of 
the  passage  as  far  as  the  kitchen,  and  then  glanced  up 
the  staircase,  but  could  not  see  George,  nor  any  trace 
of  him. 

"  Well,  sir,  may  I  ask  why  you  rouse  me  thus  in  the 
dead  of  night  ?  " 

My  eager  impatience  gave  me  no  time  for  apology. 

"  I  want  my  brother,"  I  cried  brusquely.  "  He  came 
in  here,  I  think." 

"  Your  brother  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man  in  a  tone  of 
surprise,  that,  if  not  genuine,  was  certainly  well 
feigned.  "  Young  man,  you  have  been  too  long  at  the 
taverns  this  morning.  There  is  no  one  in  this  house 
but  myself." 

It  was  difficult  to  refuse  belief  to  this  statement,  for 
the  old  man  had  so  grave  and  reverend  an  air  that  he 
might  have  stood  for  an  image  of  Truth — of  Truth  in 
these  later  days,  I  mean,  when,  as  is  well  known,  he 
has  become  a  little  old  and  antiquated. 

13 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  I  replied,  after  listening  vainly 
for  some  sound  to  proceed  from  within  .that  might  dis 
prove  his  words.  "  Some  one  entered  here  only  a  min 
ute  or  two  ago,  unknown,  it  may  be,  to  you.  These 
footprints  are  not  mine." 

But  on  looking  downwards  I  found  that  a  snow- 
wreath  had  drifted  over  the  pavement,  effectually 
covering  the  footsteps  of  myself  as  well  as  those  of  the 
refugee. 

The  old  man  smiled  at  my  perplexity — a  smile  that 
was  annoying,  for  it  implied  that  he  regarded  me  as  a 
sad  wine-bibber. 

"  Who  is  your  brother  ?  " 

"  Captain  George  Willard,  of  the — the " 

And  then  I  stopped.  I  could  perhaps  have  given 
him  the  titles  of  Caesar's  ancient  legions,  but  of  the 
name  of  my  brother's  modern  regiment  I  was  totally 
ignorant. 

"  I  really  don't  know  the  name  of  the  regiment." 
The  old  man  smiled  again,  as  well  he  might.  "  He's  in 
India  now — that  is  to  say,  he  is  when  he's  there,  you 
know,"  I  stammered,  conscious  that  I  was  blundering 
terribly. 

"  Captain  Willard  ?  I  have  never  heard  the  name 
before.  He  is  not  here.  You  have  mistaken  the  house." 

"  Would  you  allow  me  to  search  the  place  ? "  I 
asked.  "  It  is  a  bold  request  for  a  stranger  to  make, 
especially  at  this  unearthly  hour,  and  nothing  but  the 
certainty  that  my  brother  has  concealed  himself  within 
induces  me  to  make  it.  You  see,  he's  a  madman,  and 
might  do  you  harm."  I  thought  this  last  would  move 
him,  but  it  only  made  matters  worse.  "I  am  certain  I 
saw  him  enter  this  house.  I  am  willing  to  pay  you  for 
your  trouble  if — if " 

I  paused  diffidently,  for  his  reverend  air  did  not  har- 

14 


The  Red  Stain 

monise  well  with  the  taking-  of  a  bribe.  The  old  man's 
voice  now  assumed  a  tone  of  asperity.  He  was  evi 
dently  getting  tired  of  shivering  half-dressed  in  the 
cold  night  air,  and  no  wonder. 

"  I  shall  certainly  not  allow  you  to  search  the  house. 
Your  brother  is  not  here.  This  door  was  double-locked 
when  I  went  to  bed.  You  heard  me  unlock  it.  How 
could  he  enter  without  the  key.  I  must  bid  you  good 
night,  for  I  see  it's  no  use  arguing  with  you  in  your 
present  state  of  mind." 

And,  without  more  ado,  the  door  was  closed  and 
locked,  and  I  could  hear  the  footsteps  of  the  old  man 
receding  along  the  passage  and  ascending  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  VEILED  LADY 

COMPLETELY  mystified,  I  stood  motionless  for 
a  few  moments.  I  was  certain  that  my  brother 
had  entered  the  house.  Perhaps,  despite  the  old 
man's  assertion  as  to  the  door  having  been  closed  and 
locked,  he  had  really  left  it  ajar,  and  George,  perceiv 
ing  this,  had,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  seized  the  occasion 
to  enter  and  hide,  resolving  to  remain  there  till  I  had 
taken  my  departure.  He  might  even  now  be  stealing  a 
look  from  one  of  the  windows  to  see  whether  the 
coast  were  clear. 

I  looked  at  the  time  and  found  that  I  had  an  hour 
before  the  departure  of  the  London  train.  I  deter 
mined  to  watch  the  house  for  a  short  time,  and  then,  if 
my  brother  did  not  appear,  to  betake  myself  to  the  sta 
tion.  The  portico  of  the  adjoining  house  was  the  spot 
I  selected  for  my  vigil,  a  place  which,  while  concealing 
my  own  presence,  gave  me  a  full  view  of  the  strange 
dwelling. 

"  I  like  that  old  man's  face,"  I  muttered,  as  I  shook 
off  the  snow  from  my  cloak,  preparatory  to  folding  it 
closer  around  me.  "  It's  a  noble  one  and  a  truthful 
one,  or  I  am  no  judge  of  faces.  I  believe  he  knows 
nothing  of  George's  entering;  but,  for  all  that,  I  am 
certain  George  is  within.  Much  good  I  do  by  stopping 
here!  George  can  easily  leave  by  the  rear — perhaps 
has  left  already.  No  matter.  If  he  is  going  to  Lon- 

16 


The  Veiled  Lady 

don  he  must  travel  by  the  same  train  as  I  shall,  and 
therefore  I  am  sure  to  see  him  on  the  platform.  If  he 
is  not  going  to  London — well,  so  much  the  better  for 
my  hopes.  I  wonder  who  the  old  man  is,  and  why  he 
is  all  alone  ?  Perhaps  he's  butler  to  a  family  who  are 
spending  their  Christmas  from  home." 

The  cold  was  intense.  The  wind  blew  keenly.  The 
drops  of  perspiration  caused  by  my  violent  run  seemed 
slowly  turning  to  icicles  on  my  chilled  skin.  I  took  a 
deep  draught  of  the  brandy  and  water  in  my  flask. 

Taking  a  cigar  from  my  case,  I  contrived  to  light  it 
after  some  difficulty,  and  puffed  away  vigorously. 
Then  I  referred  to  my  watch.  "  Only  ten  minutes 
elapsed?  I  thought  it  was  half  an  hour.  Time  lags. 
Who  was  it  that  said  'Time  flies?'  If  the  ass  were 
here  to-night  in  my  place  I  rather  fancy  he  would  re 
voke  his  saying.  Am  I  really  awake,  I  wonder?  Can 
this  be  Daphne's  wedding-morn,  and  am  I  here,  at 
3 :3O  A.  M.,  in  the  snow  at  Dover,  keeping  watch 
on  an  absconding  bridegroom?  It  must  be  a  dream. 
I  shall  wake  up  presently  at  old  Heidelberg,  and 
hear  the  chapel-bell  tinkling  for  matins." 

Twenty  minutes  elapsed.  "  Nothing  happening  so 
far."  I  muttered  "  I'm  a  fool  to  stop  here.  This  is 
growing  ridiculous.  I  shall  freeze  if  I  remain  much 
longer.  I  believe  I  am  freezing — falling  off  into  one  of 
those  sweet  Russian  slumbers  that  one  reads  of  in 
books — or  is  it  the  brandy  ?  Aha !  what's  that  ?  Some 
thing  is  happening  in  the  strange  house,  that's  cer 
tain." 

A  light  had  appeared  at  an  upper  window,  and 
was  shining  faintly  out  into  the  night.  My  curiosity 
was  raised  to  a  high  pitch,  and  I  stole  from  my  hiding- 
place  to  get  a  nearer  view.  The  old  man  had  not  been 
burning  a  light  previously  to  my  arrival,  and  if  he  had 

17 


The  Weird  Picture 

gone  to  bed,  what  did  he  want  with  one  now?  Ex 
citement  drove  all  the  cold  from  my  body,  and  a  ting 
ling  warmth  succeeded,  as  with  a  quickly-beating  heart 
I  waited  for  some  development  of  this  apparent  mys 
tery  ;  and  no  words  of  mine  can  describe  my  feeling  of 
surprise  as  I  saw  the  shadow  of  a  woman  glide  across 
the  blind  of  the  lighted  window.  The  dark  silhouette 
stood  forth  for  a  moment  distinct  on  the  illumined 
white,  and  then  vanished. 

Now  there  is  nothing  surprising  in  the  shadow  of  a 
woman  crossing  a  blind  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morn 
ing;  but  when  you  have  been  assured  a  few 
minutes  previously  by  the  tenant  of  the  house  that 
there  is  no  one  within  the  building  but  himself,  it  docs 
become  a  matter  of  surprise,  and  in  the  present  case 
everything  tended  to  invest  the  event  with  a  mysterious 
air.  The  woman,  to  judge  by  the  outline  of  her 
shadow,  was  habited  as  if  for  a  journey,  and  this, 
added  to  the  fact  that  the  light  was  now  ex 
tinguished,  induced  me  to  extend  the  duration  of  my 
watch.  No  one  came  out,  however,  and  as  the  London 
train  would  be  departing  in  fifteen  minutes,  I  delib 
erated  as  to  the  wisdom  of  staying  longer.  If  I  missed 
the  train  I  should  net  be  in  time  for  the  wedding, 
using  the  word  wedding  in  a  provisional  sense ;  for, 
from  the  strange  proceedings  of  the  last  hour,  doubts 
began  to  seize  me  as  to  whether  it  would  ever  come  off. 

I  was  loth  to  depart,  but  the  desire  of  witnessing  the 
scene  that  would  take  place  at  my  uncle's  house  in  the 
event  of  George's  non-appearance  decided  my  course 
of  action.  I  determined  to  wait  no  longer,  and,  having 
applied  both  eye  and  ear  to  the  keyhole  of  the  strange 
house  without  learning  anything  thereby,  I  set  off  for 
the  station  at  a  running  pace. 

Having  completely  lost  my  bearings,  and  being  a 

18 


The  Veiled  Lady 

stranger  to  Dover,  I  knew  not  which  way  to  turn,  and 
would  have  fared  ill  but  for  the  guidance  of  a  friendly 
constable.  I  arrived  two  minutes  before  the  departure 
of  the  train.  On  receiving  my  luggage  from  the 
porter,  I  said: 

"  You  have  not  seen  the  gentleman  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  He's  not  in  this  train.  Not  been  here 
since  you  left." 

Having  satisfied  my  curiosity  by  walking  along  the 
platform  and  scrutinising  the  occupants  of  every  car 
riage,  I  returned,  and  said : 

"  Find  me  a  first-class  compartment,  all  to  myself." 

"  One  here,  sir,  with  the  brightest  lamp  in  the  whole 
train." 

If  mine  were  the  brightest,  I  pity  those  who  were 
cursed  with  the  dullest. 

"  Put  it  in  specially  for  you,  sir." 

The  lies  some  people  will  tell  for  a  few  paltry  pence ! 
Taking  a  corner  seat,  and  calling  for  a  foot-warmer,  I 
leaned  out  of  the  window,  keeping  a  sharp  look-out  in 
case  George  should  turn  up  on  the  platform  at  the  last 
moment. 

"  I  suppose  my  bro — the  gentleman  cannot  now  get 
to  London  before  me  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  he  has  gone  by  the  other  line." 

"What  other  line?" 

"  The  L.  C.  and  D." 

"What's  that?" 

"  The  L.  C.  and  D.  ?  "  repeated  the  porter,  appar 
ently  astounded  that  any  one  should  be  ignorant  of  the 
meaning  of  those  initials.  "  Why,  the  London, 
Chatham  and  Dover  Railway?  Their  last  train  left 
twenty  minutes  ago." 

Here  was  a  pretty  piece  of  news  !  I  could  have  writ 
ten  a  long  article  on  the  numerous  paved  vice  that  radi- 

19 


The  Weird  Picture 

ated  from  ancient  Rome,  but  I  knew  next  to  nothing  of 
the  lines  of  railway  that  emanate  from  modern  London, 
and  the  idea  that  there  might  be  an  iron  road  to  the 
great  city  other  than  the  one  I  was  travelling  by  had 
never  occurred  to  me. 

"  I  have  had  my  long  watch  for  nothing,"  I  muttered 
savagely.  "  While  I  was  shivering  in  the  cold,  George, 
for  all  that  I  know  to  the  contrary,  may  have  left 
the  house  by  a  back  door,  and  may  now  be  bowling  on 
his  way  to  London.  Well,  anyhow,  I  am  close  on  his 
heels.  I  shall  arrive  before  the  wedding,  and  you 
don't  marry  Daphne,  George,  till  you  have  given  an 
explanation  of  your  strange  conduct.  Something 
wrong  has  been  going  on,  else  why  should  you  avoid 
me  ? "  And,  with  the  usual  sophistry  employed  by 
mortals  when  their  self-interest  is  concerned,  I  tried  to 
convince  myself  that  in  requiring  an  explanation  from 
George  I  was  actuated  by  a  consideration  for  Daphne's 
welfare,  and  by  no  other  motive. 

The  guard's  whistle  had  sounded,  and  the  locomotive 
in  front  had  given  a  warning  shriek,  when  the  figure  of 
a  lady  appearing  within  an  archway  just  opposite  the 
compartment  I  was  in  darted  hurriedly  across  the  plat 
form. 

"  Ticket,  if  you  please,  miss.  Thank  you.  Charing 
Cross — first-class.  Jump  in,  please.  Not  a  moment  to 
lose." 

The  carriage-door  was  flung  hastily  open,  and  the 
lady,  partly  by  her  own  exertions  and  partly  aided  by 
a  gallant  porter,  entered,  and  seated  herself  at  the 
other  end  of  the  compartment  on  the  side  opposite 
to  me. 

Now,  although  by  no  means  so  handsome  a  person 
as  I  could  wish  myself  to  be,  I  am  nevertheless  not 
quite  so  ugly  as  to  inspire  aversion  in  the  mind  of  any 

20 


The  Veiled  Lady 

dame,  be  she  old  or  young ;  and  yet  the  lady  had  no 
sooner  set  eyes  upon  me  than  she  stared  at  me  with 
terror,  as  if  mine  were  the  most  repulsive  countenance 
that  had  ever  disgraced  the  Chamber  of  Horrors — 
conduct  which  somewhat  nettled  me,  for,  being  a 
not  ungallant  youth,  I  was  hoping  for  a  charming 
tetc-d-tete  all  the  way  to  London. 

She  glanced  at  the  door,  as  if  desirous  of  quitting  the 
compartment  for  another,  but  if  such  were  her  purpose 
it  was  baffled.  The  train  was  now  fairly  on  the  move, 
and  we  were  steaming  out  of  the  station  into  the  cold 
snow-dotted  air  of  night.  Willing  or  unwilling,  the  lady 
must  submit  to  be  my  companion  for  the  next  two 
hours.  Her  obvious  glances  of  distrust  and  alarm 
put  me  in  a  false  position,  and  I  at  once  determined 
to  open  a  conversation  for  the  purpose  of  showing 
what  a  good  youth  I  was,  and  how  little  to  be  dreaded ; 
but  ere  proceeding  to  this  course  I  took,  while  pretend 
ing  to  read  the  newspaper,  a  steady  view  of  my  fair 
companion. 

She  was  slender,  graceful,  lady-like,  and  tall,  as  a 
woman  should  be.  With  Byron,  "  I  hate  a  dumpy 
woman."  Her  features  seemed  regular  and  handsome, 
but  I  could  discern  little  of  them  through  the  thick  veil 
she  was  wearing,  save  a  pair  of  splendid  dark  eyes — 
the  colour  being  a  trifling  deviation  from  my  ideal 
of  beauty,  since  Daphne's  eyes  were  of  a  dark  blue. 
A  close-fitting  bonnet  covered  her  dark  hair,  and  a  fur 
boa  was  wrapped  round  her  throat.  A  pair  of  little  red 
leather  shoes  peeped  out  from  beneath  the  skirts  of  a 
long  fur-lined  cloak.  A  muff  contained  her  gloved 
hands. 

"  A  handsome  brunette,"  was  my  critique.  "  I  shall 
be  most  happy  to  introduce  myself.  How  shall  I  begin, 
and  what  shall  I  talk  about  ?  Ha !  tell  her  I'm  going  to 

21 


The  Weird  Picture 

a  wedding.  Nothing  unlocks  a  woman's  tongue  so 
easily  as  a  wedding — barring,  perhaps  a  sensational  di 
vorce." 

Now,  while  I  was  casting  about  in  my  mind  how  to 
begin  the  conversation,  my  attention  was  suddenly 
attracted  to  something  that  she  had  thrust  beneath  the 
seat  immediately  on  entering  the  compartment.  Down 
from  my  hands  dropped  the  newspaper  at  the  sight  I 
saw.  That  sight  was  nothing  more  than  a  valise  partly 
hidden  from  view  by  her  dress.  But  the  portion  that 
did  display  itself  was  marked  by  the  letters  "  G.W.," 
thus  corresponding  exactly  with  the  initials  on  the  bag 
that  my  brother  had  carried !  Was  the  bag,  now  peep 
ing  out  at  me  from  beneath  the  carriage-seat,  the 
identical  one  that  had  disappeared  with  George  into  the 
mysterious  house?  My  staring  eyes  were  transferred 
from  the  lady's  face  to  the  valise,  and  from  the  valise 
to  the  lady's  face,  in  swift  alternation. 

Then  I  suddenly  recalled  the  silhouette  on  the  blind, 
and,  as  I  studied  the  lady's  head-dress  and  figure,  I 
thought  if  she  were  to  pass  between  a  light  and  the 
blind  the  contour  of  her  shadow  would  not  be  very  dis 
similar  from  the  one  I  had  seen.  Could  she  have  issued 
from  the  strange  house  as  soon  as  I  had  left  it,  and 
would  that  account  for  her  haste  and  breathless  state 
on  entering  the  train?  Her  obvious  mistrust  of  me, 
then,  arose  from  a  cause  totally  different  from  that  of 
womanly  timidity  at  being  exposed  alone  to  the  com 
pany  of  a  stranger.  Yet,  since  we  had  never  met  each 
other  before,  how  did  she  know  I  was  a  person  to  be 
avoided? 

"  Who  are  you,"  I  muttered  to  myself,  "  and  what 
relations  do  you  hold  with  my  brother  ?  for  some  deal 
ing  you  have  with  him,  else — why  that  bag?  Are  you 
his  first  Daphne,  I  wonder,  travelling  to  London  to  tell 

22 


The  Veiled  Lady 

the  second  Daphne  that  you  are  an  insurmountable  ob 
stacle  to  a  certain  wedding  that's  to  come  off  this  morn 
ing  ?  A  sort  of  sister-in-law  to  me,  whose  relationship 
has  not  been  sanctioned  by  the  Church?  Has  George 
been  compromising  himself?  Let  me  try  to  find  out." 

I  had  a  high  idea  of  my  own  ability  to  "  draw  "  peo 
ple  out.  The  sequel  will  show  what  a  dexterous  cross- 
examiner  the  law  has  lost  in  me. 

"Do  you  object  to  smoking,  madam?"  I  asked,  by 
way  of  beginning  a  conversation. 

In  lieu  of  a  verbal  reply,  the  lady  responded  by  a 
quick  horizontal  motion  of  her  head,  which  sign  pre 
sumably  implied  that  she  did  not  object. 

Ours  was  not  a  smoking  carriage.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  fact  that  suggested  the  idea  of  a  cigar.  Youth 
is  defiant,  and  "  Thou  shalt  not  "  is  often  the  parent  of 
"  I  will."  So,  with  a  sovereign  contempt  for  the  com 
pany's  by-laws,  I  proceeded  to  light  a  cigar,  remarking 
as  I  did  so : 

"  It  is  a  rough  night  for  travelling." 

Assent  was  given  to  this  proposition  by  a  vertical 
inclination  of  her  head.  No  words  as  yet  had  passed 
her  lips.  This  was  certainly  not  very  encouraging,  but 
then  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  until  after  I 
had  been  addressed  by  her.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
while  courting  the  Muses  at  Heidelberg  I  had  per 
haps  neglected  the  Graces,  and  had  lost  all  notions  of 
etiquette  ;  and  unlike  the  damsel  in  the  opera  of  Ruddi- 
gore,  I  did  not  carry  an  etiquette-book  about  with  me 
to  consult  in  cases  of  doubt,  or  I  might  have  referred  to 
it,  in  the  present  instance,  under  the  head  of  "  Whether 
it  be  allowable  for  a  gentleman  travelling  in  company 
with  an  unknown  lady  to  try  to  draw  her  into  conversa 
tion  ?  "  Whether  it  be  allowable  or  not,  it  is  certainly 
the  duty  of  every  one  to  be  considerate,  so  I  pushed  the 

23 


The  Weird  Picture 

foot-warmer  to  the  feet  of  my  fair  companion,  re 
marking  : 

"  Your  need  is  greater  than  mine." 

I  thought  that  this  famous  quotation  from  Eliza 
bethan  history  would  be  sure  to  elicit  some  words.  But 
no.  Her  thanks  took  the  shape  of  a  graceful  inclina 
tion  of  her  head,  and  at  the  same  time  the  dark  eyes 
sparkled  through  the  veil,  seeming  to  say :  "  You  want 
to  make  me  speak,  but  you  shall  not  succeed."  She 
had  evidently  recovered  from  her  terror.  Perseverance 
is  an  essential  feature  in  my  character.  I  determined  to 
continue  my  crusade  against  her  silence.  I  took  from 
my  portmanteau  some  English  illustrated  magazines 
that  I  had  brought  with  me  from  Heidelberg  to  beguile 
the  tedious  hours  of  travelling,  and,  extending  them  to 
the  stranger,  said : 

"  May  I  offer  you  these  ?  " 

Now  this  proved  a  bad  stroke  of  policy  on  my  part, 
for  the  papers  were  accepted  with  a  grave  bow,  and  the 
lady  at  once  immersed  herself  in  their  contents,  and 
took  no  further  notice  of  me. 

"  Well,  if  this  doesn't  beat  all ! "  I  muttered. 
"  You're  a  cool  one !  Rude,  too,  for  surely  an  act  of 
courtesy  is  deserving  of  a  few  words  of  thanks  ?  "  It 
then  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  she  was  aware  I  was 
suspicious  of  her,  and  had  determined  to  baffle  me  by 
presenting  a  firm  shield  of  silence  to  my  conversational 
shafts,  even  when  those  shafts  consisted  of  casual  and 
trifling  remarks. 

In  ordinary  circumstances  I  should  not,  after  so 
many  rebuffs,  have  continued  to  press  my  attentions, 
but  I  regarded  the  singular  events  of  the  night  as  a 
justification  for  my  persistency.  I  therefore  seized  the 
occasion  when  she  chanced  to  look  up  from  her  reading 
to  make  another  trial  to  elicit  a  word : 

24 


The  Veiled  Lady 

"  Are  you  travelling  far,  madam  ?  " 

The  magazine  was  laid  aside,  and,  producing  a  card- 
case,  she  seemed  to  be  making  a  selection  from  its  con 
tents.  Presently  she  handed  a  card  to  me.  It  was  in 
scribed  with  the  following  words,  written  evidently 
with  a  view  to  emergencies  such  as  she  was  now  in : 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  have  seemed  rude.  I  thank  you  for 
your  kind  attentions,  but  being  dumb  from  birth,  I  am 
unable  to  carry  on  a  conversation. — DORA  VANE." 

Dumb  from  birth !  This,  then,  was  the  key  to  her 
extraordinary  silence.  But  immediately  the  thought 
succeeded,  "  Perhaps  she  is  only  fooling  me."  The 
words  on  the  card  might  describe  the  actual  state  of  the 
case,  or  they  might  be  but  the  resources  of  a  woman 
determined  not  to  yield  an  inch  to  my  curiosity — an 
adroit  device  to  ward  off  all  further  questions. 

"  You  evidently  heard  my  last  remark,"  I  thought, 
"  even  above  the  roar  and  rattle  of  this  train,  and  yet 
I  was  always  given  to  understand  that  people  who  are 
dumb  from  birth  are  likewise  deaf.  You  must  be  an 
exception.  If  you  are  dumb,  as  this  card  states,  you 
must  know  the  dumb  alphabet.  I'll  try  an  experiment, 
and  put  you  through  a  few  paces." 

I  was  quite  familiar  with  the  finger  alphabet,  having 
been  taught  it  by  my  school  friend  Tracey,  who  used 
to  hold  many  a  silent  conversation  with  me  when  les 
sons  grew  tedious.  So,  after  attracting  the  lady's  at 
tention  again,  I  held  up  my  fingers  and  proceeded  to 
frame  a  sentence  expressive  of  my  sympathy  for  her 
affliction.  But  she  stared  at  me  with  absolutely  no  ap 
preciation  of  my  meaning,  and  the  only  conclusion  I 
could  draw  from  my  experiment  was  that  my  compan 
ion  was  no  more  dumb  than  myself,  but  that  for  rea 
sons  of  her  own  she  did  not  want  to  have  any  conversa- 

25 


The  Weird  Picture 

tion  with  me,  and  had  hit  upon  this  device  for  render 
ing  any  impossible. 

"  Tracey's  system  of  dumb  language  doesn't  seem 
to  work  upon  the  South  Eastern  line,"  I  muttered,  rue 
fully  relinquishing  my  efforts.  "  Perhaps  Tracey's  was 
one  of  his  own  invention.  Not  likely,  though ;  he 
hadn't  the  brains  to  invent  anything." 

Thus  do  we  libel  the  absent ! 

Manifestly  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  attempt  to 
gain  any  knowledge  of  the  lady  by  compelling  her  to 
lift  her  veil  and  to  reveal  the  part  played  by  her  in  the 
mysterious  business,  though  I  was  more  than  once 
tempted  to  commit  this  rash  act.  Such  a  proceeding, 
besides  being  very  ungallant,  might  have  resulted  in 
my  transference  from  the  train  to  a  police-cell.  It  was 
equally  out  of  the  question  to  seize  on  the  valise  and 
examine  its  contents.  To  press  her  with  further  ques 
tions  would  be  as  little  to  the  purpose ;  for  if,  accept 
ing  her  plea  of  dumbness,  I  committed  them  to  paper, 
she  would  doubtless  refuse  to  answer.  All  I  could  do 
was  to  sit  in  silence,  resolving  in  my  own  mind  not  to 
lose  sight  of  her  on  reaching  London,  but  to  follow 
her  and  find  out  if  possible  the  place  of  her  abode. 

So  I  whiled  away  the  rest  of  the  journey  in  reading, 
or  in  trying  to  read,  some  Christmas  annuals.  Dora 
Vane,  to  give  the  lady  the  name  she  had  claimed,  hav 
ing  glanced  through  the  magazines,  was  now  apparent 
ly  asleep  in  her  corner  of  the  compartment.  It  was 
only  a  feigned  sleep  however,  for  whenever  I  moved, 
she  would  give  a  start,  plainly  showing  that  she  was 
suspicious  of  me. 

The  train  was  delayed  considerably  by  the  adverse 
weather,  and  it  was  not  till  past  seven  o'clock  that  we 
entered  Charing  Cross  Station.  I  opened  the  carriage- 
door,  and,  emerging  first,  assisted  the  veiled  lady  to 

26 


The  Veiled  Lady 

alight.  Two  points  were  noticeable  in  her  behaviour 
while  stepping  from  the  train — the  care  with  which 
she  guarded  the  bag,  and  the  care  she  took  to  avert  her 
face  from  me.  As  there  was  not  a  soul  on  the  platform 
to  welcome  her,  I  was  on  the  point  of.  proffering  my 
services  to  escort  her  to  her  destination,  but  with  a 
friendly  nod  to  me  she  flitted  off  without  a  moment's 
delay  to  the  end  of  the  station,  and  then  hailing  a 
cab,  was  driven  off.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that,  instead 
of  handing  the  driver  a  card  with  an  address  on  it,  as  a 
dumb  lady  might  naturally  be  supposed  to  do,  she  had 
conveyed  her  orders  to  him  by  word  of  mouth ;  bat  I 
was  too  far  off  to  be  certain  of  this.  However,  the  mo 
ment  the  vehicle  had  disappeared  beneath  the  archway 
I  flung  my  portmanteau  and  person  into  a  hansom, 
calling  out  to  the  driver : 

"  Follow  the  cab  that  has  just  left.  Don't  lose  sight 
of  it  for  a  moment.  Don't  get  in  front,  but  keep  behind 
it.  I  want  to  see  where  the  lady  gets  out.  You  un 
derstand  ?  " 

The  man  nodded  with  a  grin  and  a  mystical  re 
mark  about  being  "  up  to  snuff,"  then  he  touched  his 
horse's  flank  lightly  with  the  whip,  and  we  bowled  out 
of  the  station  in  gallant  style,  following  in  the  wake  of 
the  cab. 

London  lay  beneath  the  murky  gaslights  wrapped  in 
a  winding-sheet  of  snow,  not  sufficiently  deep,  how 
ever,  to  stop  vehicular  traffic,  though  it  retarded  it 
to  a  considerable  extent.  The  snow  was  an  advantage 
in  one  respect,  since  it  deadened  the  sound  of  the 
wheels  of  my  hansom,  and  the  wintry  flakes  still  fall 
ing  served  as  a  sort  of  veil  to  conceal  the  fact  that 
the  cab  was  being  followed. 

The  destination  of  the  veiled  lady  appeared  to  be 
some  place  in  North  London,  for  the  vehicle  she  was  in 

27 


The  Weird  Picture 

proceeded  along  St.  Martin's  Lane,  and  turned  up 
Long  Acre  into  Drury  Lane.  Thence  its  progress  was 
across  Oxford  Street,  and  up  Southampton  Row,  till 
it  finally  turned  into  the  Huston  Road. 

"  I  have  it !  "  I  cried.  "  She  is  going  to  Euston 
Station ! " 

All  hope  of  tracing  the  mysterious  lady  to  her  final 
destination  must  now  be  abandoned.  If  she  were  go 
ing  by  train  to  some  distant  part  of  the  country  it  was 
out  of  the  question  to  follow  her.  I  must  be  at  the 
wedding.  But  I  was  wrong  in  my  hasty  surmise.  The 
cab  did  not  proceed  to  the  station,  but  turned  to  the  left 
along  the  Euston  Road,  stopping  at  last  in  front  of  an 
obscure  public-house ;  and  the  cabman,  flinging  down 
the  reins,  descended  from  the  box  and  entered  the 
building. 

"  She  surely  isn't  going  to  get  out  there,"  I  thought. 
"  Go  on  slowly,"  I  said  to  my  driver,  who,  peeping 
through  the  lid  in  the  roof,  asked  whether  he  should 
proceed.  We  drove  past  the  cab,  and  one  glance  suf 
ficed  to  show  that  the  vehicle  was  empty.  My  surprise 
found  vent  in  language  which  the  most  charitably  dis 
posed  of  my  friends  could  not  have  construed  into  a 
doxology. 

"  You've  followed  the  wrong  cab !  "  I  cried  savagely 
to  my  driver. 

"  Not  I,  governor.  That  'ere  is  the  wehicle  you  told 
me  to  follow:  No.  2071.  It's  my  pal's — Bill  Whip- 
pam's — cab.  That's  him  as  is  in  the  pub  now — he's  a 
rare  'un  for  the  booze." 

In  a  moment  I  was  inside  the  public-house.  The 
"  rare  'un  for  the  booze  "  was  ringing  a  golden  coin  on 
the  counter  of  the  bar,  as  if  to  test  its  genuineness. 

"  A  good  'un !  "  he  cried  delightedly,  "  Blow  me  tight 
if  I  didn't  think  it  was  a  duffer  for  the  minute !  She's 

28 


The  Veiled  Lady 

something  like  a  fare,  she  is!  A  glass  of  the  usual, 
Jim,  with  a  little  lemon  and " 

"  Where  is  your  fare,  cabby  ? "  I  demanded 
brusquely. 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  you,  governor  ?  "  was 
the  immediate  retort. 

"  A  good  deal,  as  you'll  see,"  I  returned  pulling  out 
a  notebook,  and  feigning  to  write  therein.  "  Your 
number,  I  see,  is  2071.  I  shall  want  you  at  Bow  Street, 
tomorrow.  Perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that  I  am  a  de 
tective,  and  that  the  lady  you  have  aided  to  escape  was 
to  have  been  arrested  this  morning?" 

The  man  assumed  a  more  respectful  demeanour. 

"  Axes  your  pardon,  governor,  but  how  was  I  to 
know  that  the  lady  was  '  wanted,'  and  that  a  'tec  was 
arter  her?  The  lady  she  says  to  me,  she  says " 

"  What  ?  "  I  interrupted.  "She  spoke  to  you,  then  ? 
She  wasn't  dumb?  " 

"  Dumb  ?  No  more  than  you  are,  governor.  She 
says  to  me :  '  Coachman,  there's  a  gentleman  a-foller- 
in'  o'  me '  " 

"That's  not  a  verbatim  report,  I  suppose?"  I  said 
with  a  smile. 

"Wot'sthat?" 

"  Those  were  not  her  exact  words,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  They  wos  her  exact  words,  governor,"  replied  the 
cabman,  with  a  solemnity  befitting  the  witness-box, 
"  so  help  me !  '  There's  a  gentleman  a-follerin'  o'  me,' 
she  says,  '  an  admirer  of  mine  pestering  me  with  his 
attentions,  and  I  want  to  get  rid  of  him.  Will  you 
help  me?  '  '  If  I  can,  miss,'  I  says.  '  Well,  then/  she 
says,  '  drive  fast,  and  the  moment  you  have  turned 
the  corner  of  Long  Acre,  draw  up  sharp.  I  shall  get 
out  there  and  then  you  drive  on  at  once  to  Euston. 
He'll  follow  you,  thinking  I  am  still  in  the  cab.  Will 

29 


The  Weird  Picture 

you  do  this,  and  I'll  give  you  a  sovereign? '  Of  course 
I  says,  '  Yes.'  She  give  me  the  quid,  and  directly  I 
turned  the  corner  at  Long  Acre  she  was  out  like  a  shot, 
almost  afore  I'd  time  to  draw  up.  She  darted  down  a 
side-street  like  winking,  and  I  drove  on  according  to 
orders." 

I  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  at  my  own  discom 
fiture.  She  had  guessed  that  I  would  follow  her,  and 
in  the  long  interval  occupied  by  our  railway  journey 
she  had  marked  out  her  plan  of  action,  and  had  de 
vised  a  pretty  little  stratagem  into  which  I  had  readily 
fallen.  Why  should  she  act  thus?  Could  this  lady 
really  be  George  in  disguise?  This  idea  was  inspired 
by  the  belief  that  she  had  come  from  the  same  house 
in  which  he  had  taken  refuge. 

"  What  sort  of  a  voice  had  she  ?"  I  asked.  "  Was 
it  at  all  masculine  ?  " 

"  Oh,  jest !  " 

"Just  what?" 

"  Maskyline." 

"  Do  you  know  what  masculine  means  ?  " 

"  Frightened-like,  I  expex  you  mean." 

"You're  a  f —    Was  it  at  all  like  a  man's  voice?" 

Cabby  seemed  to  think  this  was  a  question  that  re 
quired  a  good  deal  of  consideration  before  answering. 

"  Well,  it  might  ha'  bin  a  man's  voice,"  he  replied, 
speaking  slowly.  "  Similarly  it  might  not.  It  was  a 
trifle  hoarse  for  a  woman,  but  I  put  that  down  to 
fright." 

"  You  wouldn't  swear  in  a  court  of  law  that  it  was 
a  man's  voice  ?  " 

"  No,  I  wouldn't,  governor.  I'm  pretty  certain  it 
was  a  woman." 

No  more  was  to  be  learned  from  the  cabman,  so, 
thanking  him  for  his  information,  I  quitted  the  tavern. 

30 


The  Veiled  Lady 

As  I  entered  the  hansom,  the  driver  exclaimed  with  a 
grin  : 

"  Given  you  the  slip,  sir  ?  Reckon  she's  a  cough- 
drop,  and  no  blooming  kid !  " 

I  turned  a  withering  frown  on  this  vulgar  familiar 
ity. 

"  Drive  to  Belgrave  Square,"  I  exclaimed  loftily, 
"  and  look  sharp." 

I  flung  myself  back  in  the  cab  in  a  fever-heat.  "  The 
affair  is  growing  exciting,"  I  muttered.  "  Was  it  a 
man  or  a  woman?  If  a  woman — who?  If  a  man — 
was  it  George?  if  not — who?  Did  George  travel  by 
the  other  line,  I  wonder,  and  will  he  come  this  morn 
ing  to  claim  his  bride,  or  will  he  not  ?  Will  the  veiled 
lady  turn  up  in  my  uncle's  drawing-room  or  at  the 
altar-rails,  and  create  some  melodramatic  scene? 
Patience — patience!  we  shall  see.  Daphne,  you  may 
yet  be  mine." 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  WEDDING  MORNING 

THE  snow  was  lying  thick  upon  the  streets,  and  as 
I  noticed  the  driver's  difficulty  in  keeping  his 
horse  up,  and  in  getting  the  vehicle  along,  I 
wondered  how  it  would  fare  with  the  wedding  car 
riages  if  the  storm  should  continue.    At  last  we  reached 
my  destination,  and  running  up  the  steps  I  found  my 
self  being  warmly  greeted  by  my  uncle,  whose  beam 
ing   face   showed  that  nothing  had  as  yet  occurred 
to  mar  the  happiness  of  the  day. 

"  This  is  a  pleasure,  Frank,"  he  said  heartily.  "  I 
was  beginning  to  think  you  would  disappoint  us  after 
all.  But  you  look  frozen.  Come  to  the  fireside  and 
get  some  food  within  you." 

I  returned  his  greeting,  and,  having  been  assured 
that  Daphne  was  in  the  best  of  health,  inquired  after 
the  bridegroom. 

"  When  did  you  see  George  last?  " 
"  Last  night.    He  was  here  till  eleven." 
"  And  where  did  he  go  when  he  left  ?  " 
"  To  his  hotel,  I  suppose,"  my  uncle  said,  looking,  as 
was  natural,  a  little  surprised  at  my  question.    "  He's 
staying  at  the  Mctropole,  you  know." 

Evidently  George,  on  parting  with  my  uncle  and 
Daphne  the  previous  night,  had  given  no  hint  of  his 
intended  visit  to  Dover,  but  meant  it  to  be  a  secret.  I 

32 


The  Wedding  Morning 

was  in  a  dilemma.  I  hesitated  to  tell  my  uncle  all  that 
had  happened,  for  George  might  have  very  good  rea 
sons  for  his  mysterious  journey,  and  reasons  requiring 
secrecy  to  be  observed  about  it.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  were  plenty  of  things  to  make  me  think  that  he 
was  not  playing  an  honourable  game,  and  I  did 
not  feel  justified  in  allowing  him  to  lead  Daphne  to  the 
altar  without  satisfying  me  that  my  uneasiness  was  not 
warranted  by  the  facts.  However,  we  were  not  at  the 
church  yet.  So  I  resolved  to  be  silent  about  the  night's 
happenings  until  I  had  seen  him  and  heard  his  version 
of  them,  or  until  the  course  of  events  should  make  it 
necessary  for  me  to  speak  out. 

I  went  upstairs  to  change  my  travelling  suit  for  a 
garb  more  becoming  the  office  of  best  man,  and  then 
joined  my  uncle  in  the  large  drawing-room,  where  the 
guests  staying  with  him  for  the  wedding  were  gath 
ered. 

"  I  had  better  make  my  way  to  the  hotel,  and  go 
with  George  to  the  church,"  I  said  to  my  uncle. 

"  Surely  that  is  unnecessary,"  he  suggested.  "  He 
knows  you  are  not  likely  to  fail  him,  doesn't  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered.  "  I  telegraphed  yesterday 
to  say  I  was  on  the  way,  so  he  won't  be  afraid  of  my 
disappointing  him." 

"  Then  go  to  the  church  from  here,"  my  uncle  said. 
"  You  must  have  had  all  the  snow  you  want,  and  if  you 
go  in  the  first  carriage  you  will  be  in  plenty  of  time. 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  some  of  the  guests." 

The  most  noticeable  of  these  was  a  young  man 
who  had  been  watching  me  with  a  curiously  attentive 
gaze.  He  was  slender  and  had  a  graceful  presence. 
From  the  profusion  of  his  dark  hair,  and  a  certain  air 
of  detachment  from  his  surroundings,  I  judged  him  to 
be  a  genius  of  some  sort,  an  artist,  a  poet,  or  a  musi- 

33 


The  Weird  Picture 

cian.  I  looked  inquiringly  at  my  uncle  who  introduced 
this  mortal  to  me  by  the  name  of  Angelo  Vasari. 

"  A  gentleman,"  he  remarked,  "  to  whom  you  owe 
some  thanks." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  I  said  with  some  surprise,  for  I  had 
never  heard  of  him  before.  "  Well,  that  is  a  debt  I  am 
always  ready  to  pay.  But  why  am  I  in  Mr.  Vasari's 
debt?" 

"  Daphne  sent  you  a  portrait  of  George  the  other 
day." 

"  She  did." 

"  It  was  Mr.  Vasari  who  painted  it." 

"Really?"  I  said,  grasping  his  hand.  "Then  you 
must  accept  my  congratulations  as  well  as  my  thanks. 
The  picture  is  a  gem  of  art.  Are  you  an  artist?  " 

It  struck  me  afterwards  that  to  call  a  man's  work 
a  gem  of  art  and  then  ask  if  he  were  an  artist  was 
somewhat  silly,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  the  absurdity. 

"An  artist?  Pardon  me,  no.  But  I  hope  to  become 
one." 

"  You  are  one,"  said  my  uncle  warmly.  "  Your 
picture  in  the  Academy  last  year  was  second  to  none." 

"  The  critics  did  not  think  so,"  he  replied  with  a 
gloomy  air. 

"  Nil  dcsperandum,"  my  uncle  said  cheerily.  "  They 
will  think  differently  some  day.  Every  great  man  has 
had  the  world  against  him  at  first." 

"  True,  true,"  said  the  artist  thoughtfully.  "  No  one 
ever  becomes  great  but  by  sorrow,  humiliation,  toil. 
Dante  did  not  attain  Paradise  until  he  had  passed 
through  Hell  and  Purgatory." 

He  had  splendid  eyes  I  noticed,  and  any  reference 
to  his  art  made  them  shine  like  stars.  Many  of  the 
women  in  the  room  looked  at  him  admiringly,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  his  melancholy  utterances  on  fame, 

34 


The  Wedding  Morning 

united  to  the  attractive  beauty  of  his  face,  made  him 
a  hero  in  their  eyes.  He  interested  me  too,  but  all  the 
while  I  was  conscious  of  an  undercurrent  of  antago 
nism  to  him.  Nevertheless,  after  a  martyrdom  of 
handshaking  and  formal  conversation  with  the  various 
persons  to  whom  my  uncle  insisted  on  presenting  me,  I 
drifted  back  to  the  ottoman  where  the  artist  was  sit 
ting,  surrounded  by  a  small  circle  of  admirers  to  whom 
he  was  showing  a  portfolio  of  sketches. 

"  Ah,  here  is  Mr.  Willard,"  he  said,  looking  at  me  as 
if  desirous  of  attracting  my  attention.  "  These  sketches 
may  perhaps  interest  him.  They  are  views  of  Rhine- 
land.  I  think  there  is  one  of  Heidelberg  among 
them." 

There  was  no  running  away  from  this  invitation 
without  seeming  rude,  so  I  sat  down  by  the  ottoman 
and  prepared  myself  to  express  an  admiration  that  I 
did  not  feel  for  the  artist's  productions. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vasari,  what  place  is  this  ? "  cried  a 
young  lady,  holding  forward  a  view  representing  a 
picturesque  old  town  by  the  side  of  a  lake,  with  Alpine 
mountains  rising  around  it. 

"  That  ?  Ah,  that  is — er — Rivoli,  a  town  among  the 
Alps."  He  spoke  with  such  hesitation  as  to  give  the 
impression  that  he  was  reluctant  to  reveal  the  name  of 
the  town.  "It  is  my  birthplace,"  he  added  briefly. 

"  Your  birthplace  ?  What  a  pretty  town  it  is !  It 
reminds  one  of  some  quaint  poem  of  Longfellow's.  Is 
it  very  old  ?  " 

"  Centuries  old.  The  people  are  quite  mediaeval — 
live  in  the  past.  Quite  an  old-world  town,  I  assure 
you." 

"  The  very  place  for  an  artist  to  be  born  in,  then." 

Vasari  smiled  mechanically,  and  seemed  to  be  search- 


35 


The  Weird  Picture 

ing  in  his  portfolio  for  something  he  had  a  difficulty  in 
finding. 

"  Ah,  here  they  are !  Twelve  sketches — heads. 
Friends  of  mine.  Some  of  them  are  artists,  wild  Bo 
hemians  ;  and  others  are  students,  two  or  three  hailing 
from  Heidelberg.  I  think  Mr.  Willard  will  recognise 
a  college-friend  among  the  number." 

I  took  the  papers,  which  were  attached  to  each  other 
by  a  piece  of  red  tape.  The  sketches  were  in  ink,  care 
fully  finished,  and  represented  twelve  different  faces 
of  men  whose  ages  might  vary  from  twenty  to 
forty  years.  Some  had  both  beard  and  moustache ; 
others  moustaches  only ;  and  one  there  was  without 
either.  I  surveyed  them  all  critically,  but  failed  to 
identify  any  one  of  them.  Looking  up  from  my  task, 
I  was  startled  to  see  Angelo's  eyes  fixed  on  my  face 
with  an  expression  that  could  not  have  been  more 
painful  if  he  had  been  a  prisoner  waiting  for  the 
verdict  of  the  jury. 

"  I  don't  see  any  one  I  know  here." 

The  artist's  face  relaxed  from  its  set  expression. 
My  answer  had  pleased  him. 

"  No,  really  ?  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  evident  de 
light.  "  And  that  is  your  sincere  belief  ?  You  do  not 
recognise  one  of  these  heads  ?  " 

"  I  do  not.    May  I  inquire ?  " 

"Whether  I  have  a  motive  in  asking?  Mr.  Will 
ard,"  he  continued,  with  a  gay  laugh,  to  those  near  him, 
"  with  that  profound  knowledge  of  human  nature  to  be 
acquired  only  within  the  secluded  cloisters  of  a  uni 
versity,  knows  that  the  wise  man  never  acts  without 
motive." 

"  But  do  I  really  know  one  of  these  persons  ?  "  I  ex 
claimed,  irritated  at  this  mystification. 

"  Eh — well,  you  say  not,"  replied  the  artist  with  a 

36 


The  Wedding  Morning 

most  provoking  smile.  "  I  will  take  your  word  for  it 
you  do  not." 

And  with  these  words  he  proceeded  to  gather  up  his 
sketches  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  wishes  to  say  no 
more  on  the  subject. 

I  have  seen  players,  elate  with  victory,  start  up 
from  the  gambling-table  when  by  one  last  turn  of  the 
wheel  on  which  all  depended  they  have  won  some 
enormous  stake,  and  I  was  strangely  reminded  of  their 
manner  by  Angelo's  air  as  he  rose  after  replacing  the 
sketches  in  his  portfolio. 

"  If  every  action  has  its  motive,"  I  thought,  "  what 
was  that  fellow's  motive  in  asking  me  to  study  those 
twelve  heads?  Was  he  trying  an  experiment,  and,  if 
so,  for  what  purpose?  I  do  not  know  those  faces, 
and  yet  one  of  them  seemed  to  have  a  familiar  look." 

I  had  no  leisure  then  to  consider  the  matter  further, 
for  more  pressing  matters  came  to  the  front.  My 
uncle,  who  had  been  absent  from  the  room,  came  in 
and  sought  me  with  a  troubled  look  upon  his  face. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  pass,  Frank !  "  he  cried.  "  Stephen  " 
—Stephen  was  his  head-coachman — "  says  it  is  im 
possible  for  the  horses  to  make  their  way  through  this 
thick  snow,  and  I  suppose  he's  right,  as  it  must  be 
two  feet  deep.  It's  out  of  the  question  to  walk.  What 
are  we  to  do?" 

I  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  be  asked  this 
question,  for,  supposing  I  had  known  a  way  out  of 
the  difficulty,  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  kept  it  a 
secret.  For  reasons  of  my  own  I  was  not  at  all  averse 
to  a  postponement  of  the  marriage,  if  only  for  one  day. 

A  friend  of  my  uncle's — a  wealthy  banker — now 
spoke : 

"  Did  you  not  say  that  Captain  Willard  had  a 
special  license  for  this  marriage  ?  " 

37 


The  Weird  Picture 

"-To  be  sure !  Of  course  he  has !  "  replied  my  uncle, 
his  countenance  brightening:  "I  had  forgotten  it. 
Ah  1  I  remember  now  laughing  at  what  I  thought  his 
folly  in  procuring  one,  and  at  his  words:  '  In  case  of 
contingencies  we  can  be  married  at  any  time  and  in 
any  place.'  He  was  right  now,  I  see." 

"  Just  so,"  returned  the  banker.  "  Let  us  hope  that 
he  will  always  have  the  same  happy  foresight.  Well, 
if  the  mountain  will  not  come  to  Mahomet,  Mahomet 
must  go  to  the  mountain:  If  we  cannot  go  to  the 
church,  the  church  must  come  to  us.  Our  sweet 
little  bride,  after  looking  forward  to  this  day  as  the 
happiest  of  her  life,  must  not  be  disappointed.  The 
marriage  can  take  place  in  this  drawing-room  just  as 
well  as  within  the  walls  of  St.  Cyprian's,  unless  indeed 
Miss  Leslie  attaches  a  peculiar  sanctity  to  a  marriage 
contracted  within  the  church.  Let  us  send  to  St. 
Cyprian's,  and  ask  Captain  Willard  and  the  Vicar  to 
come  here. 

"  I  suppose  there  is  no  alternative,"  my  uncle  said, 
"  short  of  a  definite  postponement  of  the  wedding. 
But  I'll  see  Daphne.  It's  time  we  should  have  been 
starting,  so  she's  sure  to  be  dressed.  I'll  go  and  fetch 
her  now." 

He  hurried  off,  and  in  a  few  moments  came  back 
with  Daphne  on  his  arm,  looking  in  her  dainty  wedding 
dress  more  beautiful  than  I  had  ever  seen  her. 

She  greeted  me  with  so  radiant  a  smile  that  the 
spectators  might  have  taken  me  for  the  bridegroom. 

So  deep  was  my  emotion  at  seeing  once  more,  and 
on  so  dramatic  an  occasion,  the  face  whose  image  for 
so  many  months  had  haunted  my  dreams,  that  ob 
livious  of  all  my  surroundings,  I  could  do  nothing 
but  gaze  at  her  with  an  earnest  and  wistful  (some 
might  have  called  it  stupid)  look  until  her  laugh — 

38 


The  Wedding  Morning 

how  sweet  and  familiar  it  sounded! — recalled  me  to 
myself. 

"  Why,  Frank,  have  you  been  in  Germany  so  long 
that  you  have  forgotten  your  native  language  ?  Speak 
to  him  in  German,  papa,  and  ask  him  if  he  is  glad  to 
see  me." 

I  stammered  out  a  few  words  of  greeting.  I  do 
not  remember  what.  The  happiness  of  seeing  her 
again  was  too  great  to  allow  of  conventional  conver 
sation  and  I  drew  back  while  the  development  of  the 
situation  was  being  explained  to  her. 

She  was,  of  course,  terribly  disappointed  by  the 
turn  events  were  taking,  but  her  courage  was  splendid. 
Although  in  her  eyes  a  marriage  in  a  drawing-room 
was  a  less  sacred  ceremony  than  one  within  consecrated 
walls,  she  seemed  less  cast  down  by  the  prospect  than 
did  her  bridesmaids  who  were  being  deprived  of  the 
chance  of  displaying  their  toilettes  to  the  fashionable 
congregation  of  St.  Cyprian's,  and  thus,  in  the  prob 
able  absence  of  reporters,  they  would  have  to  forego 
the  pleasure  of  reading  in  the  society  papers  the  de 
scription  of  their  finery. 

"  Well,  Daphne,  what  do  you  say  ? "  her  father 
asked. 

"  Let  George  be  sent  for,"  she  replied.  "  I  will  do 
just  as  he  wishes." 

In  my  anxiety  to  see  and  question  George  I  was  on 
the  point  of  starting  for  the  church  myself,  but  my 
uncle  detained  me. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  Why  should  you  expose  your 
self  unnecessarily  to  this  storm?  Hall  can  go,"  and 
I  had  no  option  but  to  submit,  and  my  uncle's  valet  was 
despatched  with  orders  to  bring  back  both  Captain 
Willard  and  a  clergyman. 

Meantime   Daphne   with  fine   courage   went  about 

39 


The  Weird  Picture 

among  the  guests,  as  if  nothing  unusual  were  happen 
ing.  Presently  she  came  up  to  me. 

"  Come  and  talk  to  me,"  she  said.  "  It  is  so  long 
since  I  saw  you.  I  am  sure  you  must  have  much  to 
tell  me." 

One  of  the  bridesmaids  made  room  for  her  upon  an 
ottoman,  and  I  drew  a  chair  near  her. 

The  language  of  love  was  all  but  trembling  on  my 
lips  as  I  gazed  at  her  beautiful  face — that  face  so  asso 
ciated  with  my  life  from  very  childhood  that  it  seemed 
to  belong  to  me  by  a  sort  of  prescriptive  right.  It 
was  well  that  others  were  by  to  check  my  ardour; 
but  for  their  presence  I  believe  I  should  have 
been  kneeling  once  more  at  her  feet.  I  had  come  back 
from  Heidelberg  with  the  intention  of  treating  her 
with  a  frigid  and  distant  courtesy — I  would  be  an 
heroic  martyr !  But  one  glance  of  her  gentle  eyes  had 
melted  my  icy  armour,  and  here  I  was  almost  on  the 
point  of  making  love  to  her  on  the  very  morning  of 
her  intended  marriage  to  another ! 

Daphne  was  her  old  sweet  self,  and  chatted  as  freely 
as  if  we  two  were  alone,  and  sitting  once  more  at 
breakfast  in  my  uncle's  old  home. 

"  You  are  looking  very  pale,  Frank,"  she  said. 
"  When  did  you  leave  the  Fatherland  ?  '* 

"  I  left  Heidelberg  two  days  ago,  and  crossed  the 
Channel  last  night.  But  tell  me  about  George."  It 
made  me  jealous  to  see  how  bright  her  eyes  became 
at  the  mention  of  my  brother's  name.  "  I  suppose 
the  Indian  sun  hasn't  made  much  difference  in  his 
appearance  ?  How  does  he  look  ?  " 

"  He  is  very,  very  bronzed,  and  much  handsomer, 
in  my  opinion,  and — and — but  there,  you'll  see  him 
this  morning  in  his  uniform,  and  you'll  confess  he 
looks  every  inch  a  hero." 

40 


The  Wedding  Morning 

I  had  seen  him  that  morning,  though  not  in  his 
uniform,  with  a  red  stain  on  his  breast,  trembling  at 
sight  of  me,  and  I  was  very  far  from  confessing  that 
he  looked  every  inch  a  hero ;  but,  of  course,  I  did  not 
tell  Daphne  this. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  spend  your  honeymoon  ?  " 

"  At  Sydenham.  A  friend  has  lent  us  a  pretty  lit 
tle  villa  there." 

"  And  from  there  you  are  going " 

"  To  India  ?  Yes.  In  February.  Papa  wants 
George  to  leave  the  army  now,  but  I  don't  think  he 
will. 

"  George  is  ambitious,  you  see,"  I  returned,  resent 
ing  in  him  that  quality  which  was  lacking  in  myself. 
"  Medals,  stars,  titles,  etc.  Perhaps  some  day  they'll 
make  him  a  baronet — if  he  do  but  kill  men  enough,  you 
know — and  then  you'll  be  Lady  Willard.  Ahem!  I 
salute  you  Lady  Willard,  in  futuro,"  I  added  with  a 
low  bow. 

"  Frank,  don't  be  ridiculous !  Mr.  Vasari  is  watch 
ing  you." 

"  Never  mind  Mr.  Vasari !  who's  he !  Let  him  watch. 
We  are  doing  nothing  wrong.  Hang  the  fellow !  How 
he  stares !  Vasari,"  I  said,  repeating  the  artist's 
patronymic — "  an  Italian  evidently :  and  as  an  artist 
a  dead  failure,  if  I  may  judge  by  his  own  remarks." 

"A  dead  failure?"  returned  Daphne,  resenting  the 
expression.  "  Well  there's  one  of  his  pictures  in  the 
next  room,  and  you  can  judge  for  yourself  whether  he's 
a  failure  or  not.  He  isn't  the  equal  of  Dore  or  Alma 
Tadema  yet,  but  he  may  be,  for  he  has  genius,  and 
some  day  it  will  be  recognised." 

"  Ah,  let  us  hope  it  will,"  I  replied  drily,  meaning,  of 
course,  the  reverse.  "  Thou  shalt  have  none  other 
gods  but  me  "  Is  the  language  of  every  lover  to  his 

41 


The  Weird  Picture 

lady,  and  Daphne's  interest  in  the  artist  moved  my 
jealousy  a  little. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  Germany  has  improved  you," 
Daphne  said,  looking  at  me  critically,  "  but  never  mind 
that  now.  You  haven't  seen  my  wedding  gifts.  They 
are  in  the  next  room.  Papa,  I  am  going  to  show  Frank 
my  presents." 

And  holding  her  long  train  with  one  hand,  Daphne 
rested  the  other  on  my  arm,  and  conducted  me  beneath 
some  heavy  hangings  to  the  next  apartment.  The  gifts 
were  arranged  in  tasteful  order  on  a  wide  and  spacious 
table. 

"  You  see  this  picture?  It  is  Mr.  Vasari's  gift — the 
work  of  his  own  hand.  '  The  Betrayal  of  Ariadne  '  he 
calls  it.  Don't  you  think  she  bears  a  resemblance  to 
me? — her  eyes  and  hair  are  just  the  colour  of  mine." 

I  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  a  painting  which, 
in  my  judgment,  rose  far  above  mediocrity.  The  com 
position  was  graceful  and  the  colouring  harmonious. 
This  is  what  the  canvas  showed :  Faint  blue  waves 
rippling  over  amber  sands ;  a  maiden  kneeling  thereby, 
with  the  teardrops  falling  from  her  eyes,  her  arms 
extended  towards  a  distant  galley  on  the  sea ;  and  a 
human  figure  advancing  from  a  wood  with  a  wreath 
in  his  hand. 

My  comprehension  of  the  work  was  aided  by  its 
author,  who  had  followed  us  from  the  drawing-room. 

"  Theseus  deserts  her,"  said  he,  "  but  amid  the  wood 
land  foliage  on  the  left  you  will  see  the  beautiful  Bac 
chus  :  he  will  kiss  away  her  tears,  and  console  her  for 
the  loss  of  her  false  hero.  See !  he  bears  in  his  hand  a 
laurel-wreath :  it  is  the  crown  of  fame,  whose  sweet 
attraction  will  cause  her  first  love  to  fade  from  her 
memory  like  a  morning  dream.  The  picture,"  he 
added  with  a  curious  smile,  "  is  a  sort  of  allegory  to 

42 


The  Wedding  Morning 

intimate  that  second  love  is  preferable  to  the  first." 

Daphne  gave  an  indignant  little  gasp  at  these  words, 
and  elevated  her  pretty  eyebrows. 

"  I  don't  believe  second  love  is  better  than  the  first ; 
do  you,  Frank  ?  " 

Had  Daphne  absolutely  forgotten  the  cause  which 
had  banished  me  so  long  from  her  presence  that  she 
could  thus  appeal  to  me  ?  Or,  remembering  it,  did  she 
delight  in  reminding  me  of  the  power  she  held  over 
me? 

"  The  sun  is  still  the  sun  at  noon  and  at  eventide,"  I 
replied ;  "  but  it  is  only  in  the  early  morning  hours  that 
his  beams  are  supremely  soft  and  lovely.  So  with  love. 
Second  love  can  never  have  the  sweet  freshness,  the 
dewy  fragrance  peculiar  to  the  first  dawn  of  passion !  " 

"  Was  Ovid's  '  Art  of  Love  '  included  in  your  curric 
ulum  of  this  year?"  asked  Daphne  with  a  smile. 
"  You  have  come  back  from  Heidelberg  quite  romantic. 
Where  have  you  learnt  to  talk  so  prettily  ?  " 

"  In  the  school  of  experience,"  I  returned. 

She  glanced  quickly  at  me,  and  I  saw  that  she  under 
stood  my  meaning.  Her  eyes  drooped,  and  a  colour 
stole  over  her  face  and  neck.  Her  confusion  was  too 
evident  to  escape  the  eye  of  the  artist,  but  affecting 
not  to  notice  it  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  us  as 
quietly  as  he  had  come. 

"  After  the  rich  display  of  presents  here,"  said  I  to 
Daphne,  "  my  gift  will  appear  but  as  poor  in  com 
parison.  I  trust  you  will  not  estimate  it  solely  by  its 
monetary  value." 

I  drew  forth  a  jewel-case  I  had  purchased  at  Heidel 
berg.  The  pressure  of  the  spring  revealed  a  golden 
bracelet  set  with  violet  amethysts. 

"  For  me  ?  "  exclaimed  Daphne,  and  the  tone  of  her 
voice  gave  me  a  delicious  thrill.  "  Oh,  how  sweet ! 

-43 


The  Weird  Picture 

None  of  my  gifts  will  give  me  more  pleasure.  Shall  I 
wear  it  this — this  morning?" 

There  was  a  hesitation  in  the  enunciation  of  the 
last  words  that  touched  me  more  than  an  avowal  of 
love  on  her  part  could  have  done.  I  nodded,  and 
aided  her  to  clasp  the  golden  circlet  around  her  slender 
wrist. 

"  I  will  return  your  gift,  Frank,  though  in  a  more 
simple  way.  You  have  no  bouquet.  Let  me  choose 
you  one." 

There  was  a  vase  of  flowers  hard  by.  Daphne 
selected  some  snowdrops,  and,  placing  them  on  a 
pretty  fern-leaf,  attached  them  to  my  breast,  bending 
so  low  in  the  act  that  my  lips  kissed  the  orange-blos 
soms  and  stephanotis  that  gleamed  in  her  dark  hair. 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  fern-leaf  signifies  ?  "  she 
said. 

"No;  what?"  I  asked. 

"  Oblivion!"  she  whispered;  and  then,  like  a  beau 
tiful  fairy,  she  glided  from  the  room.  I  understood 
her. 

"  Oblivion !  "  I  muttered.  "  Well,  yes  ;  fern-leaf  may 
signify  that,  but  you  have  forgotten  that  the  snowdrop 
is  the  emblem  of  hope." 


44 


CHAPTER  IV 

WAITING 

FROM  Belgrave  Square  the  walk  to  and  from 
St.  Cyprian's  ordinarily  takes  about  fifteen  min 
utes.  Allowing,  say,  another  ten  on  account  of 
the  snowy  weather,  and  it  will  be  seen  that  the  valet 
should  have  returned  with  George  after  the  lapse  of 
twenty-five  minutes.  Twenty-five  minutes  passed,  how 
ever,  thirty,  thirty-five,  and  yet  George  and  the  valet 
failed  to  put  in  an  appearance — a  circumstance  that 
caused  the  guests  to  look  at  each  other  in  wonder. 

"  What  can  detain  them  ?  "  muttered  my  uncle.  "  If 
George  is  at  the  church,  why  does  he  not  come  here? 
and  if  he  has  not  yet  arrived,  why  doesn't  Hall  hurry 
back  and  tell  us  so,  instead  of  keeping  us  in  this  sus 
pense  ?  Confound  the  fellow ! "  he  added ;  "  I  could 
have  gone  and  come  twice  over  in  the  time  that  he 
has  taken." 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  snow 
was  still  falling.  So  thick  and  heavy  were  the  whirl 
ing  flakes  that  the  air  was  quite  darkened  by  them. 
Still  the  bridegroom  came  not.  The  conversation  lan 
guished,  the  guests  yawned,  and  Daphne's  face  assumed 
an  anxious  look. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  about  going  to  the  church  to-day," 
she  said  in  a  trembling  voice,  in  answer  to  a  question 
from  a  friend,  "  if  I  only  have  George  here  safe  and 

45 


The  Weird  Picture 

well.  I  do  wish  he  would  come !  "  she  said,  her  lip 
quivering.  "  Something  must  have  happened  to  him." 

"  No,  no,  little  woman,  you  mustn't  get  that  idea 
into  your  head,"  her  father  said  hastily.  "  His  friends 
in  that  case  would  have " 

At  last ! 

There  was  a  ringing  of  the  door-bell,  a  rush  of  feet 
to  the  hall,  and  twenty  voices  exclaimed : 

"  Here  they  are !  " 

The  plural  pronoun,  however,  was  not  justified  by 
the  event,  for,  on  opening  the  door,  only  one  person 
was  visible,  and  that  was  my  uncle's  valet. 

"  Why,  what !  How's  this  ?  Where's  the  Captain  ?  " 
exclaimed  my  uncle.  "  Speak  low,"  he  added,  point 
ing  to  the  drawing-room,  as  a  sign  he  did  not  wish 
Daphne  to  hear. 

"  Captain  Willard  is  not  at  the  church,  sir,"  whis 
pered  the  man. 

"Not — at — the — church?"  repeated  my  uncle,  paus 
ing  with  astonishment  between  each  word. 

"  No,  sir.  At  least  he  hadn't  arrived  by  the  time 
I  left.  I  have  been  waiting  for  him,  and  that's  what 
has  made  me  so  long." 

"  What  time  did  you  leave  the  church  ?  " 

"  Quarter  past  ten." 

"  And  he  was  to  have  been  there  at  half  past 
nine !  "  cried  my  uncle. 

"  The  Vicar  wishes  to  know  what  you  are  going  to 
do,"  said  the  valet.  "  Is  he  or  his  curate  to  come  and 
perform  the  ceremony  here  ?  " 

"  That's  a  question  that  cannot  be  settled  without 
George,"  replied  my  uncle.  "  Of  course  he's  only  be 
ing  delayed  through  the  snow.  It's  extremely  awk 
ward.  What  are  we  to  do  ?  " 

He  paused  a  moment  to  reflect,  and  then  said : 

46 


Waiting 

"  Go  to  the  church  again.  If  the  Captain  is  not 
there  tell  the  verger  to  send  him  on  here  as  soon  as 
he  arrives ;  and  ask  the  Vicar  or  his  assistant  to  step 
over  here.  Then  hasten  at  once  to  the  Metropole,  and 
see  whether — whether  any  accident  has  happened  to 
my  nephew.  Hurry !  " 

We  returned  to  the  drawing-room  and  explained 
matters  to  Daphne,  my  uncle  striving  to  put  the  best 
complexion  he  could  upon  the  case. 

"  It's  only  the  stress  of  weather  that's  delaying 
him,"  he  remarked.  "  George  very  likely  spent  last 
night  with  a  friend — a  brother  officer,  probably — who 
lives  in  the  suburbs.  The  cab  ordered  to  convey  him 
this  morning  is  unable  to  proceed,  and  so  he's  obliged 
to  tramp  on  foot  through  twenty-five  inches  of  snow. 
No  wonder  he's  late,  then.  There's  nothing  to  be 
alarmed  at,  little  woman." 

I  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  my  state  of  excitement. 
Could  it  be  that  George  was  actually  deserting  Daphne  ? 
Was  Fate  after  all  reserving  her  for  me? — a  thought 
that  caused  my  blood  to  course  like  a  swift  fire  through 
vein  and  artery.  I  turned  my  flushed  face  to  the  bride. 
Poor  Daphne !  She  sat  there,  silent  and  pale,  with  her 
hand  clasping  that  of  an  aged  lady-friend  who  was 
trying  to  assure  her  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
alarmed  at.  My  selfish  heart  was  touched  by  the  sad 
picture.  Had  the  time  come  for  me  to  give  an  account 
of  my  meeting  with  George  at  Dover?  Not  yet.  I 
resolved  to  await  the  return  of  the  valet  first. 

Dark,  and  ever  darker  grew  the  gloom  outside. 
It  was  impossible  to  keep  up  a  pretence  of  conversation. 
Silence  fell  over  us  all,  and  soon  nothing  was  to  be 
heard  but  the  sound  of  the  embers  glowing  and  crack 
ling  in  the  grate,  and  the  painful  ticking  of  the  clock 
on  the  mantelshelf.  The  waxen  tapers  in  the  chande- 

47 


The  Weird  Picture 

Hers  twinkled  gaily  to  their  reflections  in  the  mirrors, 
as  if  they  enjoyed  the  victory  they  were  gaining  over 
the  daylight  without.  And  still  the  bridegroom  came 
not. 

Presently  there  was  another  furious  ring  of  the 
bell  at  the  hall  door,  and  again  there  was  a  rush  of 
feet  and  a  score  of  voices  exclaiming  "  Here  they  are !  " 

"  Who  is  it?  "  said  Daphne,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"  I  think,"  replied  I,  "  that  I  can  hear  them  saying  a 
name  that  sounds  very  like  Chunda." 

"  Chunda  ?  That's  George's  native  servant.  Ask 
him  to  come  here,  Frank." 

The  visitor,  having  shaken  the  snow  from  his  gar 
ments,  was  conducted — almost  pushed — into  the  draw 
ing-room,  and  turned  out  to  be  a  dusky  Hindoo  in 
English  garb.  He  was  followed  by  my  uncle's  valet, 
who  had  met  him  on  the  way. 

"  Chunda,"  said  Daphne,  addressing  the  Hindoo, 
"  where  is  Captain  Willard?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  Miss  Daphne,"  returned  he,  in  a 
tone  in  which  surprise  and  perplexity  were  blended. 
"  Is  he  not  here  ?  He  has  been  absent  from  the  hotel 
all  night." 

"  Absent  from  the  hotel  all  night?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Daphne.  He  left  the  Metropole  about 
seven  o'clock  last  night,  saying  he  was  going  to  spend 
the  evening  in  Belgrave  Square,  and  would  be  back 
about  eleven.  He  never  came  back." 

"  Then  he  must  be  at  Sydenham,"  said  Daphne. 

"  So  I  thought,"  continued  the  Hindoo ;  "  and  as  he 
had  told  me  that  he  had  some  orders  which  he  partic 
ularly  wished  me  to  attend  to  before  the  wedding  took 
place,  I  set  off  for  Sydenham,  and  waked  up  the  house 
keeper.  But  the  Captain  wasn't  there,  she  said.  I 
walked  back  to  London — cold  work  it  was,  too, 

48 


Waiting 

through  the  snow.  But  the  Captain  was  not  at  the 
hotel  when  I  got  there ;  and  had  not  been  in  while  I 
was  there,  the  hall-porter  said.  I  found  his  bed  un 
touched.  I  waited  some  time,  and  then,  thinking  there 
must  be  something  wrong,  I  came  here." 

The  artist  now  stepped  forward  into  the  circle  which 
had  been  gradually  forming  around  the  Hindoo. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  I  must  make  a  state 
ment  now  that  I  would  have  made  before  but  for  the 
fear  of  agitating  Miss  Leslie ;  it  is  this :  Last  night, 
about  twelve  o'clock,  happening  to  be  at  Charing  Cross 
Station,  I  saw  Captain  Willard  take  the  express  for 
Dover.  Before  I  could  get  near  enough  to  speak  with 
him,  the  train  was  off.  I  was  surprised  to  see  him  tak 
ing  such  a  journey  only  a  few  hours  before  his  intended 
wedding.  '  But  perhaps,'  I  thought,  '  he  has  some  ur 
gent  business  to  do  at  Dover  connected  with  the  mar 
riage,  and  will  return  by  an  early  train.'  " 

"  It  is  true,"  I  said  in  a  voice  too  low  to  reach 
Daphne's  ear.  "As  I  was  landing  from  the  packet- 
boat  this  morning  I  saw  George  on  the  pier  at  Dover, 
but  not  to  speak  to.  He  avoided  me — fled  from  me, 
in  fact." 

My  wondering  uncle  gazed  at  Angelo  and  myself,  as 
if  not  quite  comprehending  the  import  of  our  words. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  George  has  deserted 
her?  "  he  gasped.  "  I  will  not  believe  it." 

Once  more  the  hall-bell  rang,  causing  an  additional 
wave  of  excitement  to  pass  over  the  company.  Alas ! 
it  was  not  George  who  rang,  but  that  bearer  of  joy  and 
sorrow,  the  postman,  with  a  letter  directed  to  "  Miss  D. 
Leslie." 

"  It  is  George's  handwriting,"  said  Daphne.  "  Read 
it  for  me,  papa." 

My  uncle  took  the  letter,  and  turned  it  over  as  sus- 

49 


The  Weird  Picture 

piciously  as  Cardinal  de  Medici  may  have  done  with 
an  epistle  from  Pope  Borgia  in  the  old  Italian  days 
when  clerical  dignitaries  enlivened  the  monotony  of 
their  ecclesiastical  duties  by  taking  off  their  enemies 
with  poison  concealed  in  a  glove,  a  flower,  or  a  letter. 
At  length,  breaking  the  seal  amid  a  deep  silence,  he 
proceeded  to  unfold  the  letter,  and  as  he  mastered 
its  contents  his  face  darkened. 

"  What  does  George  say  ?  "  asked  Daphne,  with  her 
hand  pressed  to  her  beating  heart. 

"  He  says,"  replied  her  father,  not  wishing  to  let  the 
whole  truth  burst  on  her  at  once,  "  that  he  regrets 
having  to  defer  his  wedding  for  a  few  days,  but  as  soon 
as " 

"  That's  not  it !  You  are  deceiving  me,  papa  !  Give 
me  the  letter.  I  will  have  it — it  is  mine !  " 

With  difficulty  she  rose  to  her  feet,  trembling  all 
over,  and  before  my  uncle  could  prevent  her  she  had 
snatched  the  letter  from  him,  and,  oblivious  of  the  com 
pany,  read  out  each  word  aloud : 

"DEAREST  DAPHNE — Break  not  your  heart  over  what 
is  as  sad  to  me  as  you.  That  has  occurred  which  com 
pels  me  to  leave  you  forever.  What  the  terrible  cir 
cumstance  is  that  forces  me  to  this  step  I  dare  not  say. 
It  has  occurred  only  within  the  past  hour.  I  can 
never  hope  to  look  upon  your  face  again.  We  must 
part  forever.  By  the  time  you  receive  this  I  shall 
be  crossing  the  Channel.  Do  not  seek  for  me :  you 
will  never  find  me.  In  some  secluded  part  of  Europe 
I  shall  live  out  my  days  a  lonely  recluse.  Try  to 
believe  that  this  is  all  for  the  best,  and  forget  that  there 
ever  lived  such  a  one  as 

"  GEORGE  WILLARD." 

Daphne  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  if  some  one 
had  not  caught  her  in  his  arms.  She  lay  cradled 

50 


Waiting 

within  the  artist's  embrace,  her  fair  face  resting  on  his 
breast,  and  his  arms  wound  round  her  slender  figure. 
Brief  as  was  this  embrace,  it  was  nevertheless  of  suffi 
cient  duration  to  make  me  hate  him — for  a  time,  at 
least. 

Tenderly  he  laid  the  figure  of  my  cousin  on  an  otto 
man.  The  ladies  of  the  assembly  crowded  round,  and 
applied  such  remedies  as  were  at  hand  to  restore  her 
from  her  swoon.  Angelo  stood  by  the  couch  with 
folded  arms,  gazing  at  the  prostrate  form  with  a  wist 
ful  look. 

"  Beautiful !  What  a  model  for  an  artist ! "  he 
murmured. 

He  must  have  had  a  strange  taste  in  the  selection  of 
his  subjects  if  he  could  have  found  pleasure  in  paint 
ing  Daphne  as  she  was  just  then.  Her  face  had  parted 
with  its  bright,  fresh  beauty,  and  had  assumed  the 
sharp  and  careworn  look  of  age.  Her  bridal  dress 
seemed  almost  to  have  lost  its  sheen :  the  white  flowers 
in  her  hair  to  have  become  emblems  of  death. 

Presently  the  artist  raised  his  eyes  with  a  light  as  of 
triumph  in  them ;  they  met  mine,  and  for  a  few  seconds 
we  stood  looking  at  each  other;  and  then  I  learned 
that  some  one  besides  myself  had  been  wishing  that 
George  would  never  return.  At  length  Daphne  opened 
her  eyes  and  spoke : 

"  It  can't  be  true,  it  can't  be  true !  George  would 
never  treat  me  like  this.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  and 
at  last  she  broke  down  in  a  passion  of  tears,  terrible 
to  witness,  and  we  men,  conscious  of  our  impotence 
in  face  of  such  overwhelming  grief,  stole  from  the  room 
and  left  her  to  the  women. 

Much  as  the  guests  would  have  liked  to  relieve 
my  uncle  of  the  embarrassment  of  their  presence  in 
these  unforeseen  circumstances  of  sorrow,  they  were 


The  Weird  Picture 

prevented  from  doing  so  by  the  storm,  which,  having 
raged  for  many  hours,  rendered  locomotion  out  of 
doors  extremely  difficult.  My  uncle  made  no  excuses 
for  his  withdrawal  from  the  company,  and  as  soon  as 
I  could  do  so,  I  too  followed  him  to  his  library,  where 
I  found  him  sitting  with  Angelo  Vasari. 

"  I  suppose,"  the  latter  was  saying,  "  that  Captain 
Willard  is  not  very  well  known  in  Paris  or  London  ?  " 

A  curious  question  this!  What  could  it  possibly 
matter  to  the  artist  whether  George  was  or  was  not 
well  known  in  Paris  or  London?  Yet  here  he  was 
putting  the  question  with  a  similar  show  of  eager 
ness  as  when  asking  me  to  study  the  twelve  facial 
sketches. 

"  I  doubt,"  replied  my  uncle,  "  whether  there  are 
six  people  in  Europe  who  know  him — know  him  inti 
mately,  that  is.  As  a  young  man  he  graduated  at 
Upsala— 

"  In  Sweden,  you  know,"  I  interjected,  for  the  en 
lightenment  of  the  artist,  who  seemed  to  resent  this 
attempt  of  mine  to  teach  him  geography. 

"  And  then,"  continued  my  uncle,  "  after  a  brief 
interval  in  England  he  sailed  for  India,  where  he  has 
been  ever  since  till  the  last  two  months." 

"  And  it  was  during  that  brief  interval  in  England, 
I  suppose,"  said  Angelo,  "  that  he  became  engaged  to 
Miss  Leslie?" 

"  Just  so." 

"  And  Captain  Willard  did  not  retuin  to  England, 
you  say,  till  the  preparations  for  his  marriage  brought 
him  over?  " 

"  You  have  it.  Daphne  and  I  took  a  voyage  to 
India  last  winter,  and  spent  several  weeks  with  George 
at  Poonah ;  and  a  very  happy  time  we  had  of  it,  too. 


Waiting 

None  could  ever  have  guessed  that  their  engagement 
would  come  to  such  an  ending  as  this." 

"Ah!" 

My  uncle's  replies  seemed  to  have  given  great  satis 
faction  to  the  artist. 

"  You  are  quite  a  prophet,"  I  said  to  the  latter. 
"  Your  wedding  gift,  the  picture,  seems  like  a  predic 
tion  of  what  happened  to-day.  Were  you  prepared 
for  the  event  ?  " 

"  To  a  certain  extent — yes,"  replied  Angelo. 

"  Had  you  any  reason  for  your  belief  other  than 
George's  strange  appearance  at  Charing  Cross  last 
night?" 

"  Well,  a  day  or  two  after  I  was  introduced  to  Cap 
tain  Willard,  I  congratulated  him  on  his  approaching 
marriage.  His  face  changed  at  once  from  gay  to  grave. 
'  Don't  allude  to  it,'  he  said ;  '  it  may,  perhaps,  never 
take  place.'  I  thought  this  strange  language  from 
one  who  had  come  all  the  way  from  India  to  be  mar 
ried,  and  asked  him  to  explain  himself,  but  he  was 
silent.  Since  then,  on  one  or  two  occasions  when  I 
have  alluded  to  the  wedding  he  would  become  melan 
choly  in  an  instant ;  and  I  began  to  surmise  that  all  was 
not  right." 

"  Your  surmises  were  only  too  well  founded,"  I  said. 

And  I  began  to  tell  the  story  of  my  night  adven 
ture.  For  a  long  time  we  sat  discussing  the  affair, 
and  devising  all  kinds  of  theories  to  account  for 
George's  flight. 

"  I  can't  understand  it  at  all,"  said  my  perplexed 
uncle.  "  There  was  nothing  strange  or  unusual  in  his 
manner  last  night  when  he  left  us.  He  talked  in  the 
most  natural  way  of  the  wedding — said  he  would  be 
at  the  church  by  9 130  prompt.  And  yet  he  must  have 
written  that  letter  soon  after  he  parted  from  us,  for 

53 


The  Weird  Picture 

he  left  here  about  ten  o'clock,  and  it  is  dated,  you  see, 
just  an  hour  later." 

"  And  he  must  have  posted  it  before  midnight,  too," 
said  Angelo,  "  or  it  would  not  have  arrived  here  by  the 
morning  post.  Strange  things  must  have  happened  in 
those  two  hours  to  change  the  current  of  his  life." 

^Shortly  afterwards  he  rose,  saying  with  a  smile, 
"  Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting." 

"  II  Divino  cannot  leave  his  easel,  you  see,"  remarked 
my  uncle,  after  the  departure  of  the  artist,  "  not  even 
for  one  day." 

"II  Divino?    Who's  he?"  I  returned  stupidly. 

"  Angelo,  to  be  sure." 

"Is  that  his  nom — de — de — brush?"  I  couldn't 
think  of  the  French  word,  so  I  used  the  English  one 
instead. 

"  It's  a  nickname  his  enemies  have  given  him  by 
antiphrasis,  because  he's  so  unlike  Raphael." 

"  Can't  leave  his  easel,:  _  said,  repeating  my  uncle's 
words.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  is  going  to  work  on 
a  gloomy  day  like  this?  Why,  he  won't  be  able  to 
see,  let  alone  paint." 

"  Nulla  dies  sine  lined,  you  know.  He  lives  in  his 
studio,  and  can  hardly  be  persuaded  to  leave  it.  It's 
a  marvel  he  remained  here  so  long  this  morning.  He's 
dying  to  make  a  name." 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  ?  " 

"  Can't  say,  I'm  sure.  It  will  not  be  for  want  of 
toil  and  study  if  he  doesn't.  He  is  occupied  now  on  a 
great  work  which  he  fondly  hopes  will  reverse  the 
previous  judgment  of  art-critics  respecting  his  abil 
ities." 

"  What  is  this  great  work  ?  " 

" '  The  Fall  of  Ccesar  '  I  think  he  calls  it,  or  '  The 


54 


Waiting 

Triumph  of  Caesar/  or — or  something  of  the  sort.  I 
know  it's  a  classical  subject." 

And  after  this  we  relapsed  into  silence. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  melancholy  and  gloom  of 
that  day  as  we  sat,  my  uncle  and  I,  in  the  darkening 
room,  each  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts.  The 
non-return  of  my  brother  did  not  afford  me  the  happi 
ness  I  had  expected,  for  it  was  counterbalanced  by 
Daphne's  exquisite  grief,  which  was  a  source  of  real 
pain  to  me.  Having  wished  so  earnestly  that  the 
marriage  might  not  come  off,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  in  some 
way  responsible  for  my  brother's  non-appearance. 

Next  day  I  took  an  early  train  for  Dover,  with 
the  intention  of  calling  at  the  strange  house,  and  of 
questioning  its  silver-haired  occupant,  who,  I  was  now 
inclined  to  believe,  knew  more  of  the  mystery  than  he 
had  cared  to  reveal.  Not  till  I  had  reached  the  Kentish 
sea-town  was  it  suddenly  forced  upon  me  that  in  my 
haste  and  excitement  I  had  forgotten  to  note  the  name 
of  the  street  in  which  the  strange  house  was  situated ; 
nor  did  I  even  know  which  way  to  turn  on  leaving  the 
station. 

The  cranial  development  known  to  phrenologists 
as  the  bump  of  locality  is  not  my  strong  point.  For 
several  hours  I  walked  the  streets  of  the  town,  knock 
ing  at  the  door  now  of  this  house  and  now  of  that, 
vainly  believing  that  at  last  I  had  discovered  what  I 
sought.  I  lived  at  the  hotel  a  week,  and  spent  a  con 
siderable  portion  of  each  day  in  the  streets,  and  on  the 
pier  and  cliffs,  thinking  I  might  meet  the  old  man  tak 
ing  his  walks  abroad ;  but  all  my  endeavors  to  discover 
him  were  attended  with  failure.  The  silver-haired  old 
man,  the  mysterious  house,  the  veiled  lady,  my  brother 
George — all  were  gone,  and  seemed  now  to  have  had 


55 


The  Weird  Picture 

no  more  reality  than  the  shadows  of  a  dream.  Once 
they  were,  now  they  are  not. 

I  will  not  weary  the  reader  with  an  account  of  the 
investigations  carried  on  for  many  weeks  by  my  uncle 
and  myself.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  our  en 
deavors  to  discover  the  cause  of  George's  flight  and  to 
trace  his  whereabouts  were  fruitless. 

"  Heaviness  may  endure  for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh 
in  the  morning."  Daphne's  morning,  however,  was 
a  long  time  in  coming  and  my  uncle  proposed  to  hasten 
its  advent  by  foreign  travel. 

"  A  Continental  tour  will  do  her  good,"  he  remarked 
to  me.  "  We  will  visit  France,  Spain,  Italy.  The 
glitter  of  foreign  cities  will  perhaps  help  to  remove  her 
grief.  You  must  come  with  us,  Frank ;  we  shall  need 
you.  A  young  fellow  like  you  will  be  able  to 
enliven  and  interest  her  more  than  any  lady  companion 
could  do — certainly  more  than  her  old  father,  who  is 
often  prosy  and  dull,  I  fear.  Being  her  cousin,  you 
can  talk  to  her  with  a  freedom  and  an  ease  that 
in  any  other  young  man  would  be  familiarity.  And 
for  heaven's  sake  try  to  make  her  forget  her  grief. 
Her  sad  face  and  thin  wasted  figure  cut  me  to  the 
heart.  You  do  not  mind  giving  up  Heidelberg  for  a 
time?" 

It  would  require  no  great  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  any 
young  man  to  leave  the  cloisters  of  a  university 
in  order  to  escort  a  beautiful  girl  through  Europe, 
so  I  gladly  assented  to  my  uncle's  proposition,  resolv 
ing,  for  my  own  sake,  to  try  to  make  Daphne  forget 
her  grief.  She  yielded  a  willing  acquiescence  to  the 
project  of  a  Continental  tour.  Poor  girl!  She  was 
in  so  dull  and  passive  a  state  of  mind  that  if  we  had 
proposed  a  voyage  of  discovery  to  the  North  Pole  she 


Waiting 

would  have  offered  no  objection.  So,  late  in  March,  we 
left  England,  and  by  the  end  of  the  summer  had  signed 
our  names  in  half  the  hotel  books  of  Europe. 


57 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  ARTIST   PAINTS   A    NOTABLE   PICTURE 

NIGHT  was  just  fading  from  the  Alpine  heights 
that  girdle  the  quaint  old  town  of  Rivoli  in  the 
canton  of  Ticino.  Two  men,  issuing  from  the 
entrance  of  a  chalet  perched  like  an  eagle's  nest  on  the 
jutting  crag  of  a  mountain  far  above  the  valley,  paused 
to  admire  the  grandeur  of  the  scene.  These  persons 
were  my  uncle  and  myself,  and  we  had  risen  at  this 
early  hour  in  order  to  witness  that  most  beautiful  of 
sights  in  Switzerland,  sunrise.  From  the  terrace  of 
the  chalet  we  watched  the  dim  Alpine  panorama  gradu 
ally  emerge  from  the  shadowy  reign  of  night.  Silent 
and  majestic  from  out  the  dark  "  sea  of  pines  "  the 
mountains  arose  to  view,  their  icy  peaks  glittering  with 
rosy-tinted  hues  in  the  soft,  beautiful  light  that  was 
now  suffusing  the  sky. 

"  By  Jove,  what  a  glorious  sight !  "  I  exclaimed 
enthusiastically. 

"  Yes,  for  a  poet  or  painter,"  replied  my  uncle,  who, 
amid  the  loveliest  scenery  of  Switzerland,  sighed  for 
the  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall. 

"  That's  a  pretty  little  town  down  there,"  I  contin 
ued,  gazing  at  the  spires  of  Rivoli.  It  lay  at  our  feet  in 
the  valley  beneath,  so  far  down  that  it  seemed  like 
a  toy  city.  "  How  the  mountains  seem  to  isolate  it 
from  the  rest  of  the  world !  Rivoli  ?  Rivoli  ?  "  I  mut 
tered.  "I  have  never  heard  of  the  place  before,"  un- 

58 


The  Artist  Paints  a  Notable  Picture 

consciously  telling  a  falsehood.  "  I  suppose  it's  quite 
out  of  the  track  of  the  ordinary  tourist?  " 

"  Quite.  We  shall  not  see  many  specimens  of  that 
genus  in  the  everlasting  suit  of  grey  tweed." 

"  What's  that  rough  stone  building  to  the  right  of 
us?"  I  said.  "There!  just  by  the  cascade.  A  her 
mit's  grotto?" 

"  Looks  like  it.  A  rather  damp  quarter  for  his  saint- 
ship,  eh  ?  I  suppose  in  this  secluded  part  of  Europe 
many  hermits  must  have  lived  out  their  lonely  days, 
and " 

He  paused,  stopped  by  the  curious  look  on  my  face. 
"  What  is  the  matter,  Frank  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  that  your  last  remark  is  singularly 
like  an  expression  in  George's  letter  of  last  Christ 
mas  ?  "  and  I  repeated  the  passage,  for  every  word  of 
that  epistle  was  engraved  on  my  mind. 

"  Hum !  so  it  is.  A  singular  coincidence  of  language. 
'  Some  secluded  part  of  Europe,'  "  he  added,  quoting 
George's  words.  "  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  more 
secluded  spot  than  Rivoli." 

It  was  now  August,  and  the  object  for  which  our 
tour  had  been  undertaken — the  removal  of  Daphne's 
grief — seemed  to  be  accomplished.  We  had  visited 
France,  Spain  and  Italy.  In  the  early  days  of  our  tour 
nothing  could  move  her  from  the  dull  lethargy  which 
had  been  her  normal  state  since  that  ill-starred  Christ 
mas  morning;  but  gradually,  as  week  after  week  glided 
by,  she  began  to  take  an  interest,  faint  and  languid 
enough  at  first,  in  the  historic  places  through  which  we 
were  passing,  till  at  length  she  seemed  to  have  become 
her  old  bright  self  once  more.  The  colour  had  returned 
to  her  cheek  and  the  smile  to  her  lip.  Whether  this 
happier  condition  arose  from  a  determination  to  forget 
her  trouble  and  adapt  herself  to  changed  circumstances, 

59 


The  Weird  Picture 

or  whether  it  was  due  to  the  secret  hope  that  George 
might  yet  return  to  her  with  his  name  cleared  from 
the  dark  shadow  resting  on  it,  I  could  not  decide ;  she 
never  alluded  to  him,  and  on  our  part,  my  uncle  and 
myself  made  it  a  point  not  to  mention  his  name  in 
her  presence.  She  treated  me  with  the  same  sweet 
familiar  freedom  as  of  old,  so  that  I  found  it  difficult 
to  believe  that  for  three  years  I  had  been  exiled  from 
her  at  Heidelberg. 

During  our  tour  I  had  never  betrayed  by  word  or  by 
act  the  state  of  my  feelings  toward  Daphne.  Satisfied 
with  the  pleasure  of  daily  companionship  with  her,  I 
was  quite  content  to  bide  my  time  patiently,  and  wait 
for  some  clear  indication  that  George  had  passed — 
not  from  her  memory,  for  that  could  never  happen, 
but  from  her  affections,  before  venturing  to  express  for 
the  second  time  the  love  I  had  never  ceased  to  bear. 

We  had  arrived  at  Rivoli  only  the  preceding  evening, 
and  were  staying  at  a  chalet  belonging  to  a  Swiss  gen 
tleman  who  had  let  it  to  us  for  a  month.  He  had  left 
behind  one  member  of  his  household  to  supplement 
our  own  servants — an  agreeable,  talkative  old  woman, 
who  had  received  us  with  an  effusive  hospitality. 

A  light  step  now  sounded  on  the  terrace  and 
Daphne's  sweet  voice  greeted  us. 

"  I  shall  not  say  good-morning,  for  you  don't  de 
serve  it.  Why  didn't  you  call  me  earlier,  papa,  that  I 
too  might  have  seen  the  sun  rise  ?  " 

Her  father  kissed  her  hands  as  though  she  were 
some  princess. 

"  Because  I  knew  you  would  be  tired  after  the  jolting 
of  that  horrible  diligence  yesterday,"  he  said ;  "  and 
so  I  let  you  rest.  But  you  have  no  hat,  and  the 
mornings  here  are  chilly." 


60 


The  Artist  Paints  a  Notable  Picture 

I  ran  indoors,  and  returned  with  a  heavy  wrap  which 
I  drew  round  her  head  and  neck. 

"  Well,  Daphne,"  my  uncle  said,  waving  his  hand 
towards  the  chalet,  "  what  do  you  think  of  our  home 
for  the  next  month  ?  " 

"  It  is  lovely,"  she  said,  moving  backward  from  the 
house  to  survey  it  better.  "  Just  the  place  to  dream 
away  a  summer  holiday  in." 

It  was  indeed  as  picturesque  a  structure  as  could  be 
found  on  a  day's  march  through  Switzerland.  It  was 
composed  of  fir-wood  painted  red,  and  the  pretty  low 
gallery  which  ran  completely  round  it,  together  with 
the  projecting  roof,  was  adorned  with  the  richest  carv 
ings. 

"  I  see,"  remarked  my  uncle,  "  that  the  piety  of  the 
architect  has  decorated  the  facade  with  Scriptural  texts 
— a  common  custom  about  here,  I  have  observed.  All 
in  Latin — from  the  Vulgate,  I  suppose.  Now,  Daphne, 
show  us  your  scholarship  by  translating  them.  What 
does  the  word  over  the  entrance  mean  ?  " 

"Over  the  entrance?"  said  Daphne,  turning  her 
eyes  upon  the  carved  porch.  "  '  Reveniet ;'  that  means 
'  He  shall  return.'  " 

Only  one  Latin  word,  and  yet  it  had  the  power  to 
make  me  tremble !  During  our  Continental  tour  I  had 
been  continually  haunted  by  the  idea  that  in  the  next 
city  or  castle,  or  cathedral  or  palace,  or  ruin  or  theatre 
visited  by  us  we  should  come  face  to  face  with  George 
— an  issue  fraught  with  peril  to  my  love  enterprise. 
Though  I  was  unable  to  assign  any  definite  reason  for 
it,  this  opinion  had  gained  strength  since  our  arrival  at 
Rivoli. 

He  shall  return ! 

Yes;  there  in  letters  of  gold,  that  gleamed  like  fire 
in  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  was  the  startling  an- 

61 


The  Weird  Picture 

swer  to  the  one  question  forever  haunting  my  mind. 
A  white  cloud  floating  upwards  from  the  valley  at  this 
juncture  cast  a  cold  shadow  over  us,  and  gave  me  an 
eerie  sensation,  as  if  George  himself  in  ghostly  form 
were  passing  by. 

"  He  shall  return !  "  repeated  my  uncle,  in  a  vein 
of  pleasantry  that  jarred  on  Daphne's  feelings.  "  And 
who  is  it  that  shall  return  ?  " 

"  O  papa !  how  can  you  ?  You  know  it  refers  to 
the  millennium.  I  declare  you  and  Frank  are  quite 
like  two  pagans!  I  don't  believe  you  have  entered  a 
church  for  the  purpose  of  worship  since  we  first  set 
foot  on  the  Continent." 

"  Frank  and  I  never  go  to  church  in  Catholic  coun 
tries.  It's  our  way  of  showing  our  Protestantism." 

Daphne  turned  from  her  irreverent  parent,  and  be 
came  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  scenery. 

"  What  peak  is  that  to  the  left,  Frank  ?  " 

"  That,"  I  replied,  "  is  the  Silver  Horn  of  the  Jung- 
frau." 

And  I  proceeded  to  deliver  a  topographical  lecture, 
interwoven  with  graceful  legends  and  poetic  quotations, 
specially  prepared  for  this  occasion  on  the  previous 
night,  in  order  that  I  might  shine  in  Daphne's  eyes  as 
a  hero  of  knowledge.  A  sudden  exclamation  from  her, 
however,  put  a  period  to  my  eloquence. 

"  Who  is  this  coming  up  the  mountain-path  ?  I  have 
been  watching  him  for  a  long  time." 

Whoever  the  person  was,  he  ascended  the  mountain 
with  the  freedom  of  one  to  whom  the  path  was  per 
fectly  familiar,  selecting  his  way  among  the  mossy 
boulders  and  grass-hidden  pools  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  and  springing  from  crag  to  crag  with  the 
agility  of  a  chamois-hunter. 


62 


The  Artist  Paints  a  Notable  Picture 

"  'Excelsior '  evidently  is  his  motto,"  said  I.  "  Long 
fellow's  young  man,  perhaps, '  mid  snow  and  ice.'  " 

"  Minus  the  '  banner  with  the  strange  device,' " 
returned  my  uncle.  "  Hanged  if  it  isn't  II  Divino ! 
How  comes  he  to  be  here  ?  " 

It  was  indeed  the  divine  one,  looking  in  the  pictur 
esque  costume  he  was  wearing  more  handsome  and 
romantic  than  ever.  A  sombrero  was  slouched  with 
easy  negligence  over  his  broad  white  brow,  and  a  long 
cloak  dropped  gracefully  from  his  shoulders.  He  had 
all  the  air  of  a  man  who,  conscious  of  his  personal 
charms,  is  determined  to  make  the  best  use  of  them. 

The  look  of  pleasure  that  mantled  Daphne's  face  had 
so  disturbing  an  effect  on  my  spirits  that  it  was  as 
much  as  I  could  do  to  treat  the  artist  with  ordinary 
civility. 

"  Angelo,"  cried  my  uncle  after  the  first  greetings 
were  over,  "  I'm  delighted  to  see  you !  But  tell  us 
how  you  came  to  be  here,  for  I  thought  that  outside 
of  Switzerland  few  beside  myself  knew  of  the  existence 
of  this  secluded  valley." 

"  Rivoli  the  Beautiful  is  my  native  place,"  re 
plied  Angelo.  Why  had  not  Fate  fixed  his  nativity 
at  the  sixth  cataract  of  the  Nile  ? 

"  I  thought  you  were  an  Italian,"  I  remarked  frigidly. 

"  My  parents  were  both  Italians,"  replied  the  artist, 
"  but  I  was  born  in  that  cottage ;"  and  he  pointed  far 
down  the  valley  to  a  tenement  on  which  Daphne  gazed 
with  interest,  while  I,  staring  in  a  different  direc 
tion,  tried  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  steel-blue  lake 
through  a  veil  of  floating  mist.  "  I  have  no  parents 
nor  any  relations  left.  My  old  nurse  still  lives ;  and 
I  make  a  point  of  visiting  Rivoli  each  year  to  breathe 
the  mountain  air,  and  to  see  that  the  old  dame  does  not 
want." 

63 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  A  very  pious  and  proper  proceeding  on  your  part," 
I  remarked. 

This  was  meant  for  sarcasm,  but  it  did  not  seem  to 
disturb  the  artist  in  the  least.  The  look  of  disapproval 
on  Daphne's  face  did  not  tend  to  tranquillise  my  mind. 

"  I  arrived  here  only  last  night,"  Angelo  continued, 
"  and,  hearing  that  a  lady  and  two  Englishmen  had 
taken  up  their  residence  at  the  Chalet  Varina,  I  guessed 
at  once  from  the  description  who  they  were.  I  deter 
mined  to  call  in  the  morning  to  present  my  compliments 
to  Miss  Leslie  and  her  father  " — he  omitted  me  from 
his  congratulations — "  and  to  ask  her  to  accept  these 
flowers." 

And  with  a  graceful  bow  he  presented  to  her  a  beau 
tiful  bouquet.  I  thought  Daphne  quite  ridiculous  in 
her  admiration  of  it. 

"  O,  how  pretty !  "  she  cried.  "  Thank  you  very 
much,  Mr.  Vasari.  I  am  so  fond  of  flowers.  Smell 
how  sweet  they  are,  Frank."  And  she  actually  held 
the  odious  gift  close  to  my  nostrils  for  my  appreciation. 
"  Aren't  they  sweet  ?  " 

"  Very,"  I  said  drily. 

"Aren't  these  violets  lovely,  papa?"  she  said,  ap 
pealing  to  her  father  for  the  appreciation  she  had  failed 
to  elicit  from  me. 

"  Purple,"  replied  her  republican  parent,  who  was 
accustomed  to  spell  king  with  a  small  k,  and  people 
with  a  capital  p,  "  is  my  aversion,  being  the  colour 
and  emblem  of  tyrants  and  kings." 

"  How  absurd  you  are,  papa ! "  returned  she. 
"  What  is  your  favorite  colour,  Mr.  Vasari  ?  " 

"  That  which  sparkles  on  the  cheek  of  Beauty,"  re 
plied  the  idiot,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  my  cousin's  face. 
And  certainly  no  colour  could  be  more  beautiful  than 
Daphne's  sweet  blush  at  that  moment,  and  my  jealousy 

64 


The  Artist  Paints  a  Notable  Picture 

redoubled  toward  the  person  who  had  called  it  forth. 
"  Do  you  understand  the  language  of  flowers,  Miss 
Leslie?" 

"  Only  a  very  little ;  do  you,  Frank  ?  " 

"  Not  I,"  I  answered  curtly.  "  I  consider  it  an  ab 
surd  study,  if  you  wish  for  my  opinion." 

"  You  must  permit  me  to  teach  you,"  said  Angelo  to 
Daphne,  completely  ignoring  my  remark. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  learn,"  was  the  reply. 

I  gasped  for  breath.  The  fellow  was  actually  making 
love  to  her  before  my  very  eyes !  The  cool  assurance 
with  which  he  spoke  and  the  graceful  serenity  with 
which  he  ignored  my  presence  were  quite  maddening. 
Here  was  I,  who  had  been  Daphne's  sole  companion  for 
five  months,  completely  thrown  into  the  shade  by  a 
foreigner  who  had  been  in  her  presence  only  as  many 
minutes. 

"  And  so  Rivoli  is  your  native  place,"  said  Daphne. 
"  Why,  of  course,  I  have  heard  you  say  so  many  a  time. 
How  stupid  of  me  to  have  forgotten  !  I  remember  now 
to  have  seen  a  sketch  of  it  in  your  portfolio.  How 
lucky,  papa,  that  you  hit  on  this  spot!  You  must  be 
familiar,  Mr.  Vasari,  with  every  stream  and  crag  and 
cascade  about  here — with  every  turn  and  wind  of  this 
valley ;  you  must  serve  us  now  and  then  in  the  capacity 
of  guide." 

"  I  shall  esteem  it  an  honour  to  do  so,"  he  returned. 

Matters  were  growing  worse.  The  lamp  that  had 
so  long  illumined  Daphne's  path  was  now  under  a 
bushel. 

"Look  at  those  wreaths  of  silvery  mist  floating  across 
the  valley  !  "  said  she. 

" '  As  if  some  angels  in  their  upward  flight 
Had  left  their  mantles  floating  in  mid-air,' " 

said  I.     I  quoted  this  to  show  that  there  were  other 

65 


The  Weird  Picture 

poetic  souls  in  existence  besides  Angelo ;  but  my  quo 
tation  was  lost  on  Daphne. 

"  And  what  a  lovely  violet  hue  those  distant  moun 
tains  have!"  she  continued.  "I  wonder,  Mr.  Vasari, 
you  never  tried  to  transfer  this  scene  to  canvas." 

"  Canvas  ?  Ah,  that  reminds  me,"  said  my  uncle. 
"I  have  been  very  remiss  in  not  complimenting  you 
upon  the  success  of  your  picture.  We  shall  yet  have 
the  Pope  requesting  your  aid  in  adorning  the  Vatican 
with  painted  frescoes.  I  understand  that  your  '  Fall 
of  Caesar  '  is  the  picture  of  Paris  this  season." 

This  allusion  did  not  seem  pleasing  to  the  artist, 
for  a  peculiar  expression  darkened  his  face  for. a  mo 
ment,  like  the  transient  sweeping  of  a  shadow  over 
a  sunny  landscape. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  murmured,  with  real  or  simulant 
modesty,  "  that  my  picture  has  been  very  much  ad 
mired.  It  was  exhibited  one  day ;  the  next,  my  name 
was  in  all  the  newspapers.  Like  Byron  I  woke  up  one 
morning  to  find  myself  famous.  I  have  realized  a 
considerable  sum  of  money  by  exhibiting  the  picture, 
and  as  a  consequence  have  become  courted  by  people 
who  discover  virtues  in  me  now  they  never  perceived 
before." 

" '  Give  me  gold,  and  by  that  rule 
Who  will  say  I  am  a  fool?'" 

murmured  my  uncle.  "  Just  so.  Gold  is  a  lamp  that 
lights  up  virtues  that  without  it  are  unseen." 

I  regret  to  say  that  I  did  not  view  Angelo  with 
any  more  favour  for  his  rising  reputation  as  an  artist, 
and  Daphne's  evident  delight  at  his  success  added 
fresh  fuel  to  my  smouldering  jealousy. 

"  What,  Mr.  Vasari !  Have  you  painted  a  picture 
that  is  creating  a  sensation  at  Paris?  Why  did  you 


66 


The  'Artist  Paints  a  Notable  Picture 

not  tell  of  this  before,  papa?  This  is  the  first  that 
Frank  and  I  have  heard  of  it." 

It  was,  but  it  was  far  from  being  the  last  we  were 
to  hear  of  the  artist's  memorable  masterpiece. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  my  uncle  replied  apologetically, 
"  I  did  not  know  it  myself  till  last  night,  when  I  saw  it 
in  the  Standard.  You  were  asleep  at  the  time,  and 
I  take  it  you  didn't  want  me  to  call  you  out  of  bed 
to  tell  you  of  it." 

At  the  mention  of  the  word  Standard,  there  appeared 
on  the  artist's  face  the  same  peculiar  expression  that  I 
had  previously  noticed. 

"Standard,  Standard!"  he  muttered  reflectively. 
"  Why,  that's  the — "  He  stopped,  and  added  abruptly, 
"  Do  you  have  the  Standard  sent  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  sent  to  me.    Why  ?  " 

"  O,  nothing,  nothing,"  replied  Angelo ;  "  nothing 
at  all.  It's  a — a  Conservative  journal,  and  I  know — 
at  least,  I  believe — you're  a  Radical." 

"  A  Radical.  Noble  profession !  "  responded  my 
uncle. 

"  Yes  ;  that's  all  it  is — profession !  "  laughed  Daphne, 
whose  political  ideals  differed  from  those  of  her  father. 

"  The  Standard  is  not  my  paper,  as  you  very  well 
know,"  said  my  uncle,  grandly  ignoring  his  daughter's 
remark.  "  It's  the  butler's  fault  that  it  is  here.  I 
wrote  telling  him  to  forward  to  Rivoli  a  file  of  news 
papers  for  June  and  July.  As  I  forgot  to  specify  what 
paper,  the  rascal  has  sent  me  the  Standard." 

"  For,  being  a  good  old  Tory,"  said  Daphne,  "  he 
thought  it  well  to  administer  an  antidote  to  your  Rad 
icalism.  I  think  his  act  deserves  commendation." 

"  June  and  July,"  muttered  Angelo.  "  What  did 
you  think  of  the  critique  on  my  picture?  " 

"  Didn't  know  there  was  a  critique  on  it.     In  fact, 

67 


The  Weird  Picture 

I  haven't  read  the  papers  yet.  I  was  simply  untying 
the  parcel  last  night,  when  my  eye  was  caught  by  a 
paragraph  to  the  effect  that  'Intending  visitors  to 
Paris  should  not  fail  to  visit  the  Vasari  Art  Gallery, 
and  view  Vasari's  magnificent  production,  "  The  Fall 
of  Caesar,"  the  great  picture  of  the  year,  already  visited 
by — '  I  forget  how  many  thousand  persons." 

Angelo  smiled. 

"  That  is  my  agent's  advertisement.  Yes,  the  num 
ber  of  persons  to  see  it  has  been  enormous.  You 
haven't  read,  then,  the  criticism  on  it  in  the  issue  of 
July  2nd  ?  " 

"  That's  a  pleasure  I  have  in  store." 

"  Nor  Mr.  Willard  ?  "  he  added,  turning  to  me. 

"  Not  yet.  I  may  read  it,"  I  replied,  as  if  the  act 
would  be  one  of  magnificent  condescension  on  my  part, 
whereas,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  I  was  inwardly 
burning  to  peruse  the  article  in  question. 

"  A— ah !  " 

And  the  prolonging  of  this  little  syllable  was  marked 
by  a  decided  tone  of  satisfaction. 

"  And  have  you  really  made  a  great  name  ?  "  said 
Daphne,  looking  admiringly  at  the  artist.  "  I  am  so 
glad !  I  always  knew  your  efforts  would  meet  with 
success.  But  tell  me  all  about  your  picture.  What 
is  the  subject?  " 

"  The  '  Fall  of  Caesar.'  It  represents  the  hero,  as  we 
may  suppose  him  to  have  been  a  few  minutes  after  his 
death,  lying  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue.  There 
are  no  other  figures  in  the  picture  besides  the  two  I 
have  mentioned,  Caesar  and  Pompey.  Some  columns  in 
the  background  complete  the  scene.  It  is  a  very  simple 
tableau,  and  no  one  has  been  more  surprised  than  my 
self  at  the  encomiums  that  have  been  lavished  upon  it." 

"  Did  the  work  take  you  long?  " 

68 


The  Artist  Paints  a  Notable  Picture 

"  The  actual  canvas-work — no ;  the  elaboration  of 
the  idea  which  led  to  the  work — yes ;  for  it  has  been 
the  outcome  of  a  lifetime  of  thought."  He  spoke  with 
all  the  air  of  an  octogenarian.  "  I  began  the  work 
about  a  year  ago,  a  year  this  autumn,  and  finished  it 
last — last  Christmas",  he  hesitated  at  the  word,  as  if 
reluctant  to  renew  Daphne's  sad  memories,  "  and  ex 
hibited  it  at  Paris  in  the  beginning  of  spring." 

"At  Paris?  We  were  at  Paris  in  the  beginning  of 
spring.  It  is  strange  we  should  have  missed  you." 

"  When  did  you  leave  Paris  ?  " 

"March  3ist — wasn't  it,  Frank?" 

"Ah!  zve — "  he  stopped  to  change  the  plural  pro 
noun  to  the  singular,  but,  rapid  as  the  correction  was, 
it  did  not  escape  my  notice — "  I  did  not  arrive  in  Paris 
till  April  ist." 

"  The  very  day  after  we  left.  How  odd !  But  why 
did  you  exhibit  vour  picture  in  Paris,  and  not  in  Lon 
don?" 

"  A  prophet  hath  no  honour  in  his  own  country," 
replied  Angelo.  "  I  think  I  may  speak  of  England  as 
my  country,  from  the  length  of  time  I  have  lived  in  it. 
London  has  disappointed  me  so  often  that  I  resolved  to 
try  Paris  this  year.  So  I  hired  a  gallery,  and  exhibited 
'  The  Fall  of  Caesar/  with  some  other  pictorial  composi' 
tions  of  mine.  The  people  of  Paris  seem  more  appre 
ciative  of  my  talent — if  I  may  be  pardoned  for  using 
the  word — than  the  Londoners." 

"  I  have  always  considered  the  French  a  superficial 
people,"  I  interjected. 

"  Oh  no,  they  are  not,"  returned  the  artist  quietly. 

"  Of  course  they  are  not?  How  can  you  say  so?" 
said  Daphne,  defending  the  artist  with  more  warmth 
than  was  pleasant  to  me.  "  We  must  see  your  picture, 
Mr.  Vasari,  when  we  come  to  Paris." 

69 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  see  it,  Miss 
Leslie,"  he  replied,  "  unless  you  are  acquainted  with 
the  Baron  de  Argandarez,  an  old  hidalgo  of  Aragon. 
He  purchased  it  from  me  for  a  sum  far  surpassing  my 
wildest  expectations.  It  now  adorns  the  walls  of  his 
ancestral  castle,  and  I  have  no  more  to  do  with  it." 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity ! "  cried  Daphne,  in  a  tone  of 
sincere  regret.  "  I  am  disappointed.  Why,  it  seems  as 
if,  after  achieving  a  brilliant  success,  you  are  deter 
mined  that  your  best  friends  shall  not  share  in  your 
triumph !  " 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  my  uncle,  "  you  are  not  very  patri 
otic  towards  your  adopted  country,  Angelo,  in  letting 
Spain  carry  off  the  great  masterpiece.  Now  if  you  had 
let  me  see  it,  I  might  have  exceeded  the  Baron's  price." 

"  O  papa,  cannot  you  write  to  the  Baron  What's-his- 
name  and  offer  him  double  the  price  he  paid  for  it? 
Perhaps  he  might  be  induced  to  part  with  it." 

"  We'll  see,  little  woman.  It's  your  birthday  in  a 
month's  time.  How  would  you  like  it  as  a  birthday 
gift?" 

Daphne  expressed  her  delight  at  the  idea,  and,  turn 
ing  to  the  artist,  said : 

"  Haven't  you  any  photograph  or  engraving  of  your 
picture  to  give  us  some  notion  of  what  it's  like?" 

Angelo  shook  his  head. 

"  I  would  not  permit  any  one  to  make  an  engraving. 
The  engraver  would  but  misrepresent  my  art.  What 
engraving  can  ever  realise  the  beauty,  the  finish,  the 
colouring  of  an  original  oil  painting?  " 

"  I  prefer  engravings  to  oils,"  said  I. 

"  Probably ;  but  then  you're  not  a  judge  of  art,  you 
see,"  replied  Angelo  coolly. 

"  I  suppose  your  success  has  brought  you  many  or- 


70 


The  Artist  Paints  a  Notable  Picture 

ders  for  pictures  ?  "  said  my  uncle,  interposing  quickly 
in  the  interests  of  harmony. 

"  Very  many.  An  English  baronet  has  employed  me 
to  paint  him  a  picture  on  any  subject  I  choose,  paying 
me  half  the  price  in  advance." 

"And  what  subject  have  you  chosen?"  asked 
Daphne. 

''  '  Modesta,  the  Christian  Martyr,'  is  the  title  of  my 
new  work,  but  I  am  delayed  somewhat  by  the  want  of 
a  suitable  model." 

"  '  Fall  of  Csesar,'  '  Christian  Martyr,'  "  murmured 
my  uncle.  "  You  seem  fond  of  death-scenes." 

"  Yes,  I  have  discovered  wherein  my  talent  lies.  My 
pencil  is  better  adapted  to  illustrate  repose  than  mo 
tion.  Hitherto  I  have  attempted  to  portray  action,  and 
failed.  Now,  still-life  is  my  study." 

"  Well,  I  hope  your  next  picture  will  become  as 
famous  as  the  last,"  said  Daphne,  "  and  that  you  will 
let  us  have  a  glimpse  of  it  before  parting  with  it." 

"  If  you  care  to  view  a  minor  performance  of  mine," 
said  Angelo,  "  visit  the  cathedral  at  Rivoli.  It  contains 
a  Madonna  painted  by  me  while  on  a  visit  last  year.  It 
has  given  great  satisfaction  to  the  people  here,  if  I  may 
be  permitted  to  sing  my  own  praises.  They  have  even 
said  I  was  inspired  by  the  saint.  Perhaps  I  was,"  he 
added  with  a  curious  smile.  "  I  should  like  you  to  view 
it,  Miss  Leslie,  before  you  leave  Rivoli,  for  a  reason 
that  will  at  once  become  apparent  when  you  see  it." 

"  A  reason  ?  What  reason  ?  Tell  me  now,"  said 
Daphne,  turning  her  eyes  upon  him  with  a  look  of 
wonder. 

"  Not  now.    The  Madonna  will  speak  for  me." 

"  You  are  talking  in  riddles.  I  shall  visit  the  cathe 
dral  this  very  day,  and  discover  your  meaning  for  my 
self." 

71 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  You  do  me  too  much  honour.  You  will  receive  a 
surprise — a  pleasant  one,  let  me  trust." 

Daphne's  curiosity  was  raised  to  the  highest  point 
and  she  cried : 

"  You  hear,  papa  ?  We  must  visit  the  cathedral  this 
very  morning,  and  solve  Mr.  Vasari's  enigma." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  her  father,  rising.  "  I  think  I 
have  solved  it  already,  and,  as  I  begin  to  feel  hungry 
qualms  'neath  the  fourth  button  of  my  waistcoat,  sup 
pose  you  run  indoors  and  see  what  progress  is  being 
made  with  breakfast.  Angelo,  you  will  join  us,  of 
course  ?  " 

Of  course  he  would ! 

Our  breakfast-room  was  a  small  prettily  furnished 
apartment,  whose  latticed  windows  commanded  a  fine 
view  of  the  mountains. 

The  fresh  morning  air  had  imparted  a  keen  edge  to 
my  appetite,  and  nothing  but  the  sense  of  Angelo's 
rivalry  prevented  me  from  doing  full  justice  to  the  sub 
stantial  fare  that  old  Dame  Ursula,  the  housekeeper, 
had  spread  before  us.  The  look  of  admiration  in  the 
artist's  dark  eyes,  his  tender,  respectful  homage,  spoke 
of  a  feeling  for  Daphne  far  stronger  than  friendship. 
He  completely  ignored  me,  and,  for  my  part,  I  did  not 
address  any  remark  to  him  during  the  course  of  the 
breakfast.  Intuitively  we  felt  that  we  were  rivals,  be 
tween  whom  interchange  of  ideas  was  impossible. 
When,  in  reply  to  some  question  of  my  uncle's,  I  held 
forth  at  great  length  on  German  theology,  he  listened 
without  saying  a  word.  When  he  grew  eloquent  over 
the  Old  Masters  and  their  works,  I  treated  his  tinsel 
verbiage  with  freezing  silence.  He  exerted  all  his  arts 
to  please  Daphne,  and  the  colour  of  her  cheek  and  the 
sparkle  of  her  eye  showed  that  if  such  attentions  did 


The  Artist  Paints  a  Notable  Picture 

not  inspire  the  sweet  sentiments  he  desired,  they  were, 
on  the  other  hand,  not  at  all  distasteful  to  her. 

On  the  seat  of  one  of  the  latticed  windows  lay  a 
brown  paper  parcel,  partly  opened,  containing  the  files 
of  the  Standard  to  which  my  uncle  had  alluded. 
Angelo  cast  frequent  glances  in  this  direction.  I  sup 
posed  he  was  burning  to  read  to  Daphne  the  eulogium 
on  his  picture,  but  as  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
it,  his  vanity  was  not  gratified. 

After  breakfast  was  over  Daphne  repeated  her  wish 
to  visit  the  cathedral  without  delay,  and  ran  off  to 
change  her  dress  for  the  journey.  My  uncle  with 
drew  for  a  similar  purpose,  leaving  me  to  entertain  the 
artist.  The  entertainment  I  offered  him  was  certainly 
not  marked  by  variety,  for  it  consisted  simply  of  an 
unbroken  silence — a  silence  that  did  not  seem  to  dis 
concert  him  in  the  least.  He  occupied  himself  with  the 
files  of  the  Standard,  turning  them  over  with  deft 
fingers,  as  if  selecting  a  certain  one  from  among  the 
number. 

"  Looking  for  the  critique,  I  suppose,  in  order  to 
read  what  a  great  man  he  is,"  I  thought.  "  What 
conceited  asses  these  geniuses  always  are ! "  And  I 
mentally  congratulated  myself  that  I  was  not  a  genius, 
a  fact  that  I  doubt  not  the  reader  has  discovered 
long  ere  this. 

Daphne  and  my  uncle  now  reappeared. 

"  We  are  bound  for  the  cathedral,  I  presume,"  said 
Angelo,  assuming  his  sombrero  and  cloak  with  a 
graceful  air.  "  Will  Miss  Leslie  mind  if  I  smoke  a 
cigar?  No?  Thank  you.  And  as  I  see  no  matches 
here,  Mr.  Leslie  will  perhaps  not  object  if  I  tear  off  a 
small  piece  of  this  newspaper  " — he  did  not  wait  for 
leave,  however,  but  suited  the  action  to  the  word 
— "  to  light  it  with." 

73 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  No  matches?  "  repeated  Daphne.  "  Here  is  a  box 
on  the  mantelshelf." 

"  So  there  is.  Hem !  Curious  I  didn't  see  it !  I 
have  been  looking  everywhere  for  a  match."  I  had  not 
seen  him  so  occupied.  "  No  matter.  This  will  serve 
my  purpose  equally  well — or  better,"  and  with  a  pe 
culiar  smile  he  ignited  the  twisted  piece  of  paper  at  the 
fire. 

There  was  in  his  lighting  of  that  cigar  a  curious  air 
of  triumph  that  puzzled  me  very  much,  and  set  me 
wondering  as  to  its  cause. 


74 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  MAN  AT  THE  CONFESSIONAL 

MY  uncle  took  Angelo's  arm  and  led  the  way 
down  the  mountain  path,  leaving  me  to  follow 
with  Daphne.  For  some  little  time  we 
walked  in  silence,  and  then  she  led  me  to  the  subject 
that  was  uppermost  in  my  mind. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Frank  ?  You  have  not  been 
yourself  this  morning." 

Her  statement  was  correct ;  I  had  not  been  myself. 
Jealousy  had  wrought  a  change  in  my  character,  caus 
ing  me  to  act  and  speak  in  a  way  that,  upon  considera 
tion,  I  admit  to  have  been  the  reverse  of  amiable. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  I  replied  in  an  aggrieved  tone,  as 
if  I  had  some  solid  ground  of  complaint,  "  that  since 
our  departure  from  England  we  have  been  playing 
Hamlet  with  the  part  of  Hamlet  left  out." 

"  Why,  Frank,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  O,  nothing  much.  That  slave  of  the  palette  seems 
to  have  taken  out  a  patent  for  the  monopoly  of  your 
conversation,  that's  all." 

Daphne  assumed  an  air  of  dignity,  an  air  that  I 
had  never  before  seen  her  assume — with  me,  at  least. 

"  If  I  have  talked  with  Mr.  Vasari  more  than  with 
you  this  morning,  I  think  I  had  good  reason.  I  saw 
a  sneer  come  over  your  face  as  soon  as  he  appeared, 
and  so  I  took  his  part  at  once.  What  has  he  done  to 
offend  you,  and  what  fault  have  you  to  find  with  him  ?  " 

75 


The  Weird  Picture 

I  suppose  if  I  had  been  perfectly  truthful  I  should 
have  replied  that  he  had  painted  a  picture  that  had 
made  him  famous,  whereas  I  had  done  nothing  to 
make  myself  famous,  that  he  was  handsome  and  I  was 
not,  and  that  as  he  was  altogether  a  more  attractive 
rival  than  myself  I  wished  him  at  the  devil.  Perfect 
truthfulness,  however,  is  not  always  observed  in 
ordinary  conversation,  so  I  paraphrased  my  real  mean 
ing. 

"  He  is  too  much  of  a  genius  to  please  me.  He  is  a 
man  with  only  one  idea  in  his  head,  and  that  is  Art. 
On  any  topic  outside  that  circle  he  is  mute.  You  think 
he  admires  your  beauty,  whereas  he  is  thinking  only 
what  a  good  model  you  would  make.  He  stands  en 
raptured  at  the  sunshine,  and  you  cry,  '  What  a  lover 
of  nature ! '  whereas  he  is  only  thinking  of  the  effect  it 
would  make  on  a  canvas.  He  would  paint  a  rose  and 
swear  that  the  copy  was  more  lovely  than  the  original. 
In  everything  Art  comes  first  with  him.  According 
to  him  Art  was  not  made  for  the  world,  but  the  world 
for  Art.  The  world  is  only  a  place  to  paint  in,  to  ob 
tain  pictorial  effects  from.  Ask  him  to  choose  between 
living  forever  in  this  lovely  valley  of  Rivoli  and  living 
forever  in  his  studio  studying  a  picture  of  it,  and  he 
would  choose  the  canvas  daub  in  preference  to  the 
reality.  He  is  a  monomaniac.  I  do  like  a  man  to  have 
a  comprehensive  breadth  and  depth  of  mind." 

An  excellent  way  this  of  detracting  from  a  man's 
abilities !  Mr.  A.  is  a  great  poet :  exactly,  but  he 
knows  nothing  of  science.  Mr.  B.  is  a  great  scientist : 
exactly,  but  he  knows  nothing  of  literature.  Estimate 
a  man,  not  by  what  he  knows,  but  by  what  he  does  not 
know,  and  you  can  draw  up  a  formidable  indictment 
against  him:  as  though,  forsooth,  it  were  possible  for 
one  mind  to  master  the  whole  of  the  cyclopaedia! 

76 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

"  In  short,"  I  concluded,  "  his  conversation  smells 
too  much  of  the  brush.  He  talks  of  nothing  but '  shop.' 
I  hate  a  fellow  who  is  always  talking  '  shop.' " 

Daphne  evidently  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  this 
tirade.  She  merely  said :  "  You  did  not  speak  a 
single  word  to  him  at  breakfast." 

"  Well,  you  see,"  I  replied  in  an  injured  tone,  "  when 
a  fellow  has  been  a  lady's  companion  for  five  months, 
he  naturally  feels  that  he  has  some  claim  upon  her 
attention  and  he  doesn't  like  being  ignored." 

"  Did  I  ignore  you  ?  "  she  replied  in  a  conciliatory 
tone;  and  then  with  a  pensive,  retrospective  air  she 
added.  "  Five  months !  And  is  it  so  long  since  we 
left  England?  It  was  too  good  of  you  to  leave  your 
university " 

"  Where  I  was  earning  quite  a  reputation,"  I  mur 
mured.  It  would  have  puzzled  me  to  say  for  what. 

" — In  order  to  escort  me  through  Europe.  I  am 
sorry  for  my  neglect  of  you  this  morning." 

The  look  that  came  into  Daphne's  eyes  was  so 
pretty,  wistful,  pleading,  that  I,  who  had  really  no 
cause  of  complaint  against  her,  began  to  feel  what  a 
hard-hearted  tyrant  Love  sometimes  makes  of  his  vo 
taries.  I  was  just  wondering  whether  she  would  ob 
ject  were  I  to  seal  our  little  concordat  with  a  kiss, 
when  my  uncle  and  Angelo  chanced  to  look  back,  so 
I  could  but  give  her  arm  a  significant  pressure  in  token 
of  my  magnanimous  resolution  to  forgive  her. 

Near  the  foot  of  the  mountain  we  came  upon  a  beau 
tiful  pool,  its  waters  being  supplied  by  a  slender 
streamlet  that  wound  down  the  mountain-side  almost 
in  the  line  of  our  walk.  Rude  stonework  bordered 
with  moss  ran  all  round  the  fountain,  imparting  to  it  a 
circular  shape.  On  one  side  arose  a  steep  rock  con 
taining  a  tall  rectangular  niche,  which  had  been  hewn 

77 


The  Weird  Picture 

for  the  reception  of  an  image,  though  at  present  it 
was  apparently  devoid  of  any  such  ornament. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Willard,"  said  Daphne,  dropping  a 
mock  courtesy,  "  have  I  your  permission  to  ask  Mr. 
Vasari  what  place  this  is  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Vasari,"  I  called  out,  "  Miss  Leslie  would  like 
to  know  the  name  of  this  spring." 

"  This,"  replied  the  artist,  coming  to  at  once,  "  is 
the  haunted  well  of  Rivoli." 

"  Why  do  they  call  it  haunted?  "  said  Daphne. 

"  From  certain  mysterious  things  that  have  hap 
pened." 

Daphne  became  interested  at  once,  while  my  uncle,  a 
disbeliever  in  the  supernatural,  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  What  things  ?  "   said  Daphne. 

"  Mr.  Leslie  will  smile  at  what  he  deems  a  supersti 
tious  story,"  said  Angelo,  by  way  of  prefatory  apology, 
"  but  it  is  a  story  that  no  one  in  Rivoli  doubts." 

"  I  hope  you  do  not  class  yourself  among  the  be 
lievers  in  humbug/'  my  uncle  remarked. 

"  From  time  immemorial,"  said  Angelo,  ignoring 
the  protest,  "  this  place  is  said  to  have  been  haunted, 
though  I  never  could  discover  by  what.  Was  it  a 
pagan  god,  demon,  or  fata — the  spirit  of  a  murdered 
man  or  of  some  wicked  mediaeval  baron — that  lurked 
within  the  shades  of  this  fountain?  No  one  could 
tell  me.  '  It  was  haunted,'  was  the  only  answer  to  my 
questionings.  Such  a  belief  might  well  have  been  dis 
missed  as  superstition,  were  it  not  for  certain  events 
that  have  taken  place  within  my  own  knowledge.  The 
bishop  of  the  diocese,  with  a  view  of  removing  the 
ghostly  fears  of  the  people  around  here,  resolved  to 
exorcise  the  spirit.  A  procession  of  priests  came  to  the 
well,  the  forms  of  exorcism  were  gone  through,  and  a 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

crucifix — a  life-size  image  of  the  Saviour — was  conse 
crated  by  the  bishop,  and  placed  in  that  niche  which 
you  see  before  you.  The  place  was  thus  to  become  holy 
ground.  Next  morning  the  crucifix  was  found  hurled 
from  its  position.  Who  had  done  it?  None  of  the 
peasants ;  they  would  not  be  guilty  of  such  impiety. 
And  besides,  none  of  them  would  have  had  the  cour 
age  to  venture  to  the  haunted  well  in  the  night-time. 
The  crucifix  was  restored  to  its  place.  Next  day  it  was 
again  found  hurled  from  the  recess,  and  this  time 
it  was  blackened  as  if  by  fire.  I  leave  you  to  imagine 
the  excitement  in  Rivoli  at  this.  A  bold  priest 
— I  knew  him  well — resolved  to  spend  a  night 
here,  for  the  purpose  of  exorcising  the  dark  power  so 
antagonistic  to  the  Church's  sacred  emblem.  He  came 
alone,  equipped  for  the  task  in  full  canonicals,  with 
bell,  book,  and  candle  to  boot.  Next  morning,  when 
we  came  to  look  for  him — I  say  we,  for  I  was  one  of 
the  search-party — we  found  him,  apparently  exhausted, 
lying  asleep  by  the  fountain.  We  woke  him,  and — " 

"  And  he  gave  an  account,  I  suppose,"  said  my  uncle, 
"  of  an  awful  figure  he  had  seen,  adorned  with  horns, 
tail,  and  hoofs?  " 

"  He  related  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  Angelo 
with  quiet  dignity,  "  for  he  had  become " 

He  paused,  to  give  greater  effect  to  his  words. 

"What?" 

"  Insane !  " 

"  WThat  had  he  seen  to  make  him  so  ? "  said 
Daphne. 

"  No  one  will  ever  know,  Miss  Leslie.  He  died  the 
same  week." 

"  What  a  strange  story !  " 

"  And  a  true  one,"  returned  Angelo  gravely.  ''No 
one  in  Rivoli  dares  come  within  a  mile  of  this  fountain 

79 


The  Weird  Picture 

after  dark;  and  no  priest,  or  body  of  priests,  has  had 
the  courage  to  try  the  powers  of  exorcism  since  that 
fatal  day." 

Daphne  was  silent  and  my  uncle,  taking  Angelo's 
arm,  resumed  the  journey,  saying: 

"  Your  story  is  a  mysterious  one,  but  it  admits  of  an 
easy  explanation  on  rationalistic  and  psychological 
principles.  Now  Professor  Dulascanbee '' 

And  while  I  was  enjoying  sweet  confidences  with 
Daphne  on  the  way  to  Rivoli,  Angelo  had  to  listen  to  a 
prosy  lecture  from  my  uncle,  directed  against  belief  in 
the  supernatural. 

"  What  do  you  say,  Frank  ?  "  he  called  out  to  me. 
"  Shall  we  imitate  the  bold  cleric,  and  try  to  solve  the 
mystery  by  passing  a  night  at  the  fountain  ?  " 

"  I'm  perfectly  agreeable,"  I  responded.  "  I  long 
to  see  a  ghost." 

It  was  a  superb  day.  The  mists  had  vanished  before 
the  glowing  sun,  and  the  sky  was  now  one  clear 
expanse  of  delicate  blue.  A  soft  breeze  fanned 
our  temples.  Through  the  sunny  air  the  mountains 
shimmered,  faint  violet  airy  masses  topped  with  snow, 
their  various  peaks  reflected  in  the  surface  of  the  lake, 
on  whose  margin  stood  the  quaint  old  town  of  Rivoli. 

The  women  of  the  place,  having  little  else  to  do, 
assembled  at  their  doors  to  see  the  rare  spectacle  of 
foreign  visitors.  All  interest,  however,  was  centred  in 
Daphne :  fingers  were  freely  pointed  at  her,  and  she 
seemed  to  be  an  object  of  animated  conversation  after 
we  had  passed  by. 

Arrived  at  the  cathedral,  Angelo  paused  by  the  holy 
water  at  the  porch,  and,  after  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  led  the  way  into  the  building.  To  my  surprise, 
Daphne  allowed  her  High  Church  tendencies  to  carry 
her  so  far  as  to  imitate  the  artist,  dipping  her  pretty 

80 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

finger  in  the  lustral  font,  and  tracing  a  wet  cross  on 
her  forehead,  while  she  whispered  with  a  smile  to  me, 
"  When  one  is  at  Rome,  one  must  do  as  Rome  does." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  say  that  if  the 
water  had  not  been  previously  consecrated,  it  certainly 
was  now  after  the  touch  of  her  hand;  but  this  action 
of  hers  was  a  going  over  to  the  enemy,  so  I  frowned 
under  pretence  of  being  a  Protestant  consumed  with 
a  zeal  for  orthodoxy. 

"  You  will  be  taking  the  veil  next,  Miss  Leslie,"  I 
remarked  loftily. 

"  Miss  Leslie?  Just  hear  him,  papa !  Not  Daphne," 
she  whispered  with  a  sweet  smile,  holding  up  her  little 
gloved  hand,  with  the  second  finger  crossed  over  the 
first,  to  indicate  that  it  symbolised  my  frame  of  mind  at 
that  particular  moment,  as  there  is  no  denying  that  it 
did. 

We  rejoined  Angelo  within  the  precincts  of  the 
cathedral.  The  interior  was  a  marvel  of  art,  and  with 
its  dim  magnificence  mysteriously  coloured  by  the  sub 
dued  light  of  the  stained  casements  it  seemed  more  like 
the  splendid  dream  of  some  Gothic  architect  than  an 
actual  reality  in  marble  and  mosaic. 

"  There  is  my  picture !  "  exclaimed  the  artist ;  and, 
hastening  forward  to  a  painting  of  the  Madonna  sus 
pended  from  the  cathedral  wall  and  before  which 
waxen  tapers  were  burning,  he  assumed  a  kneeling  at 
titude. 

"  From  the  days  of  Pygmalion  downwards,"  I 
whispered  to  my  uncle,  "  what  artist  has  not  fallen  in 
love  with  his  own  work  and — worshipped  it?  " 

Daphne's  thoughts  were  more  charitable  than  my 
own: 

"  I  always  think  Catholics  are  more  devout  than  we 
are." 

Si 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  Externally,  perhaps,  they  may  be,"  said  my  uncle ; 
adding  aside  to  me,  "  but,  if  I  mistake  not,  neither  art 
nor  religion  is  claiming  his  thoughts  at  this  moment. 
Do  you  not  recognise  the  face  of  our  Lady  ?  No  won 
der  the  people  in  the  streets  stared  so  at  Daphne. 

Surprise  for  the  moment  kept  me  dumb. 

Angelo  had  given  to  his  Madonna  the  face  of 
Daphne!  Very  sweet  and  saintly  the  portrait  looked, 
too,  I  must  confess,  and  yet,  withal  beautiful  and 
womanly,  totally  different  in  character  from  the  stiff 
unnatural  productions  of  the  mediaeval  school.  The 
background  was  of  bright  gold,  and  a  deep  blue  coif 
veiled  the  fair  throat  and  hair.  The  drooping  eyes 
seemed  to  be  contemplating  the  kneeling  devotee, 
and  the  fringe  of  long  dark  lashes  lay,  a  vivid  contrast 
to  the  purity  of  the  snow-white  cheek. 

Angelo's  gaze  was  fixed  in  rapt  adoration  on  the 
lovely  face  above  him.  The  expression  of  his  eyes  and 
the  significance  of  his  attitude  were  not  to  be  mistaken. 

Anger  flamed  in  my  breast.  The  artist's  motive  for 
wishing  Daphne  to  visit  the  cathedral  was  now  clear. 
It  was  to  flatter  her  vanity  by  representing  her  as  a  sort 
of  saint,  to  whom  good  Catholics  paid  their  vows — 
another  of  his  steps  toward  weaving  the  silken  threads 
of  love  around  her.  Oblivious  of  the  timid,  retiring 
delicacy  that  characterises  the  spirit  of  true  love,  he 
thus  by  a  bold  profanation  of  religious  art  dared  to 
flaunt  his  passion  for  Daphne  in  the  face  of  others,  so 
sure  of  victory  did  he  feel. 

"  They  call  this  the  Iron  Age,"  I  whispered  in  my 
uncle's  ear.  "  It  should  be  the  Brazen." 

"  Ah,"  he  returned  in  a  tone  which  did  not  indicate 
whether  he  was  pleased  or  annoyed  at  the  tableau  be 
fore  him,  "  a  custom  this  of  the  old  Italian  artists — a 


82 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

beautiful  face,  I  suppose,  materially  aids  one's  devo 
tions." 

I  turned  to  Daphne.  The  colour  had  mounted  to  her 
brow,  but  her  face  was  no  index  of  the  thoughts  pass 
ing  within  her  mind.  Did  she  divine  the  meaning  of 
Angelo's  kneeling  attitude,  or  did  she  regard  the  por 
trait  as  a  compliment  only — an  over-bold  one,  perhaps 
— to  her  beauty,  and  see  in  his  pseudo-devotion  nothing 
more  than  the  spirit  of  a  devout  Catholic? 

The  artist,  having  gone  through  the  beads  of  his 
rosary,  rose  to  his  feet  and  addressed  Daphne. 

"  I  trust,  Miss  Leslie,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  that 
you  will  forgive  me  for  having  canonised  you  without 
either  papal  sanction  or  your  own." 

Like  a  good  Catholic,  he  put  the  papal  sanction  first 
and  Daphne's  next. 

"  Last  autumn,"  continued  Angelo,  "  I  was  requested 
by  a  priest  of  this  cathedral,  Father  Ignatius  by  name, 
to  paint  a  Madonna.  Not  thinking  that  you,  Miss 
Leslie,  would  ever  visit  this  place,  I  took  your  face  as 
my  model,  for,  pardon  my  boldness,  I  could  not  find  a 
more  beautiful  one." 

Daphne  looked  extremely  grave. 

"  It  is  sacrilege,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  awe.  "  What 
would  your  priest  say  if  he  knew  of  this  ?  " 

"  He  would  pardon  the  sacrilege — if  sacrilege  it  be — 
that  gave  him  so  fair  a  Madonna.  If  the  divine 
Raphael  introduced  the  heads  of  beggars  in  his  delinea 
tions  of  patriarchs  in  the  frescoes  of  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
may  I  not  employ  the  living  face  in  my  picture  ?  " 

Daphne  did  not  reply  to  this  question,  but,  still  very 
grave,  continued : 

"  To  be  recognised  by  staring,  gaping  crowds  in  the 
streets  of  this  town  as  the  original  of  their  cathedral 


The  Weird  Picture 

Madonna  is  a  kind  of  fame  I  could  very  well  dispense 
with." 

"  They  will  say  that  the  saint  has  left  the  skies  to 
shed  the  sunlight  of  her  presence  on  earth,"  he 
answered. 

He  accompanied  this  extravaganza  with  a  smile,  but 
it  was  a  melancholy  one.  Clearly  Daphne  was  not 
pleased  with  the  act  that  had  elevated  her  into  a  saint. 
The  artist  was  not  slow  to  perceive  the  light  of  triumph 
in  my  eyes,  and  his  face  darkened. 

"  I  have  committed  an  error,"  he  said  with  a  defer 
ential  bow.  "  I  must  ask  pardon.  I  could  not  know 
when  I  painted  this  Madonna  that  you  would  ever  set 
foot  within  this  edifice." 

"  But  you  could  at  least  have  told  me  before  setting 
out  what  to  expect." 

The  artist  was  the  picture  of  despair. 

"  I  have  done  wrong  in  your  eyes — English  Protes 
tants  perhaps  regard  it  as  a  sin,  but  believe  me,  the 
practice  is  not  unknown  among  us  Italian  artists.  Let 
the  example  set  by  others  exculpate  me  to  some 
extent." 

The  melancholy  of  his  face  and  the  humility  of 
his  manner  softened  Daphne's  displeasure,  and,  resum 
ing  her  wonted  air,  she  said  quickly : 

"  Let  us  say  no  more.  What  is  done  cannot  be  un 
done.  You  have  my  forgiveness,  and  as  a  proof  you 
shall  show  me  round  the  cathedral,  if  you  will." 

A  look  of  delight  mantled  the  face  of  the  artist,  and 
he  offered  her  his  arm,  which  she  readily  took.  My 
uncle,  saying  that  he  preferred  to  rest  in  some  quiet 
spot,  and  that  he  would  await  their  return,  had  already 
taken  a  secluded  seat,  and  I  moved  off  to  join  him. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  accompany  us,  Frank  ?  "  said 
Daphne  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

84 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  I  returned  loftily.  "  Mr.  Vasari 
will  not  mind  if  I  remain  here  till  your  return." 

She  made  no  reply,  and,  escorted  slowly  by  her 
cicerone  along  an  aisle  adorned  with  statuary  and 
pictures,  was  soon  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  ecclesio- 
logical  lore. 

We  have  it  on  the  authority  of  a  gentleman  who  lived 
at  Stratford-on-Avon  that  jealousy  is  green-eyed.  If 
so,  my  eyes  must  have  resembled  emeralds  as  they 
followed  the  pair.  Of  the  two  candidates  for  her 
smiles,  which  was  the  favourite?  During  breakfast  I 
fancied  it  might  be  Angelo ;  while  escorting  her  to  the 
cathedral  I  felt  certain  it  was  I ;  now  once  more  my 
rival's  star  seemed  in  the  ascendant. 

"  And  probably,"  I  thought,  "  she  will  smile  sweetly 
on  me  at  her  return.  Verily  woman  is  an  enigma !  " 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  my  uncle,  as 
I  took  a  seat  beside  him. 

"  Of  inditing  a  sonnet  on  the  mutability  of  women." 

"  Ah !  take  my  advice,  and  never  attempt  to  under 
stand  a  woman  or  her  motives.  You  will  never  suc 
ceed." 

"  Daphne's  motives  are  pretty  obvious,"  I  replied, 
glancing  darkly  at  the  distant  figure  of  the  artist. 

My  uncle's  only  reply  was  a  smile,  that  resembled 
his  opinion  of  women,  inasmuch  as  it  was  very  oracular 
and  quite  impossible  to  understand,  and  he  resumed  his 
reading  of  Goethe's  Faust — a  work  of  which  he  was 
extremely  fond,  carrying  it  about  with  him  wherever 
he  went,  and  favouring  us  hourly  with  quotations  ap 
propriate  to  any  state  of  circumstances  we  happened  to 
be  in. 

Presently  he  looked  up  from  his  reading,  and  said : 
"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  Daphne  may  have  a 


The  Weird  Picture 

motive  in  giving  a  little  encouragement  to  Angelo — a 
motive,  totally  free  from  any  love  for  him?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

"  Did  you  not — er — well,  make  love  to  her  once  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said  gruffly.  "  I  did.  But  it's  more  than 
three  years  ago." 

"  And  you  have  not  breathed  a  word  of  love  to  her 
since  then." 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  said. 

"  Very  well,  then.  Supposing  she  wants  to  find  out 
whether  you  still  retain  your  love  for  her,  how  is  she 
to  do  it  ?  Do  you  expect  her  to  ask  you  outright  ?  No  ? 
Well,  one  way  of  finding  out  is  to  seem  to  encourage 
a  rival  and  note  the  effect  on  you.  I  don't  say  it's  a 
noble  way,  but  it's  a  woman's  way.  And  if  she  sees 
that  you  are  jealous  she  can  draw  her  own  conclu 
sions." 

"  Do  you  honestly  mean  that  that  is  her  motive  in 
encouraging  that  fool  of  an  artist  ?  "  I  cried  eagerly. 

My  uncle  put  up  his  hand. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  Woman  is  an  enigma,  to  which  I 
don't  pretend  to  know  the  proper  answer.  I  merely 
make  a  suggestion." 

That  I  found  the  suggestion  palatable  requires  no 
saying,  but  if  I  accepted  it  I  was  immediately  con 
fronted  by  the  further  question  why  Daphne  should 
wish  to  know  whether  I  still  loved  her,  and  therein  I 
found  matter  for  not  a  little  meditation. 

My  uncle  seemed  disinclined  to  carry  on  the  con 
versation,  so  I  whiled  away  the  time  by  taking  a  survey 
of  the  cathedral.  It  was  a  Saint's  day  on  the  morrow, 
and  preparations  for  the  festival  occupied  most  of  the 
attendants.  There  was  much  moving  to  and  fro.  Now 
and  again  peasants  would  enter  with  baskets  of  fruit 
and  flowers  for  the  adornment  of  the  columns,  shrines 

86 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

and  altars,  until  the  place  began  to  assume  the  aspect  of 
a  flower  market.  Tired  of  gazing  at  the  decorations,  I 
directed  my  attention  to  a  confessional  box  not  far 
off.  Unlike  most  confessional  boxes,  the  front  of  this 
one  was  quite  open  to  view,  and  within  there  sat 
an  aged  priest,  corded  and  sandalled,  while  outside, 
with  his  lips  applied  to  an  orifice  on  a  level  with  the 
priest's  ear,  knelt  a  man  whispering  a  confession.  The 
penitent  was  aged  too,  with  hair  that  gave  him  quite 
a  venerable  appearance. 

I  watched  the  "  little  sinner  confessing  to  the  big 
sinner,"  to  use  a  favourite  phrase  of  my  uncle's,  and 
noted  the  troubled  expression  on  his  face  and  the  nerv 
ous  humility  with  which  he  clasped  one  hand  over  the 
other.  If  looks  were  to  be  taken  as  evidence  the  father 
confessor  was  deeply  interested  in  the  recital  of  the 
other's  frailties.  Suddenly  I  saw  his  eyes  turn  to  a  far 
corner  of  the  cathedral,  and  following  his  gaze  I  saw 
that  the  objects  of  his  attention  were  Daphne  and 
Angelo,  who  had  just  come  into  view  from  behind 
the  pillars  of  a  colonnade.  She  was  laughing  gaily,  and 
the  artist  was  bending  over  her  in  an  attitude  sugges 
tive  of  tender  affection.  Long  and  earnest  was  the  look 
that  the  priest  fixed  upon  the  pair — so  long  and 
earnest  that  my  curiosity  was  aroused  as  to  its  cause. 
Was  he  envying  Angelo  his  happiness?  Was  he 
thinking  of  the  maidens  who  might  have  loved  him 
in  the  early  days  before  his  vows  of  celibacy  were 
taken  ? 

A  quick  motion  of  the  priest's  cold  grey  eyes  recalled 
me  from  this  train  of  thought,  and  to  my  surprise  I 
found  him  regarding  me  with  a  keen  gaze  that  was 
in  no  way  abated  when  he  saw  that  I  was  conscious  of 
it.  Then  he  turned  his  gaze  once  more  upon  Daphne 
and  her  escort,  who  had  again  become  visible  between 

87 


The  Weird  Picture 

the  columns  of  the  cloister.  And  so  long  as  he  sat 
there,  coffined  in  the  confessional  box,  he  continued  to 
manifest  this  singularity,  that  when  he  was  not  looking 
at  Daphne  and  Angelo  he  was  looking  at  me,  and  when 
he  was  not  looking  at  me  he  was  looking  at  Daphne 
and  Angelo,  so  that  I  could  tell  simply  from  the  motion 
of  his  eyes  when  the  artist  and  my  cousin  were  visible, 
and  when  the  pillared  walk  concealed  them  from  view. 
Although  he  appeared  to  be  putting  a  number  of  ques 
tions  to  the  aged  penitent  he  nevertheless  did  not  abate 
one  jot  of  his  steady  gaze. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  he  had  recognised  in  Daphne 
the  original  of  the  Madonna,  but  that  did  not  explain 
his  scrutiny  of  me, — a  scrutiny  that  sprang,  I  was  sure, 
from  something  more  than  casual  curiosity.  Could 
the  confession  of  the  penitent  have  anything  to  do  with 
it?  Once  more  I  surveyed  the  person  of  the  old  man, 
and  it  began  to  dawn  upon  me  that  I  had  seen  him  be 
fore,  but  when  and  where  and  in  what  circumstances  I 
failed  to  recall.  I  closed  my  eyes  in  order  to  aid  my 
powers  of  reflection,  but  still  could  not  solve  the  prob 
lem  of  his  identity.  Just  as  I  opened  my  eyes  again 
to  take  another  view  of  the  confessional  box  I  wit 
nessed  a  remarkable  tableau. 

The  penitent  was  still  proceeding  with  his  whispered 
story  when  the  priest  started  to  his  feet  with  an  impulse 
that  apparently  he  could  not  control.  Horror  was 
painted  in  vivid  characters  on  his  face  as  he  stood  erect 
and  stiff,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  cloister, 
while  the  other  man,  with  his  white  head  bent  and  his 
hands  piteously  clasped,  sank  low  on  his  knees,  a  study 
of  humiliation.  What  terrible  secret  had  been  imparted 
to  the  priest  that  he  should  betray  such  emotion  ?  For 
a  full  minute  he  remained  as  rigid  as  a  statue,  and 
then  hurriedly  quitting  the  confessional  box  he  beck- 

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The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

oned  the  penitent  to  follow  him.  They  passed 
through  a  small  archway  leading  to  some  sacristy,  and 
the  oaken  door  concealed  them  from  my  view. 

Then  it  was  that  memory  came  to  my  aid,  and  I 
trembled  all  over  at  the  revelation  it  imparted.  I  turned 
to  my  uncle  who,  absorbed  in  his  book,  had  not  ob 
served  the  singular  scene. 

"  Uncle,"  I  said,  and  even  in  my  own  ears  my  voice 
sounded  strange ;  "  did  you  notice  an  old  man  kneeling 
at  that  confessional  box  over  there?" 

"  I  have  been  at  Nuremberg  all  this  time,"  replied 
my  uncle  in  tones  aggravatingly  dry  and  measured, 
"  and  therefore  could  not  see  what  was  passing  here. 
Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Who  do  you  think  he  was  ?  " 

"  Answer  your  own  riddle  and  let  me  return  to  the 
wit  of  Mephistopheles." 

"  He  was  the  tenant  of  the  mysterious  house  at 
Dover." 

My  uncle  found  my  words  more  interesting  than 
those  of  Mephistopheles. 

"  You  are  dreaming,  Frank." 

"  No.    I  am  sure  that  it  was  he." 

"  So  far  from  Dover  ?  Is  it  likely  he  would  turn  up 
in  this  out-of-the-way  place  ?  " 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  what  he  is  likely  to  do ;  it's  a 
question  of  what  he  has  done.  He  is  here.  That's  a 
fact.  For  aught  we  know  to  the  contrary  he  may  be  an 
Italian.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it  his  voice  had  a  for 
eign  accent." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  asked  my  uncle,  looking  all 
around  the  cathedral. 

"  He  went  with  the  priest  through  that  door-way," 
I  answered,  and  I  told  him  of  what  had  taken  place  at 
the  confessional  box. 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?  "  my  uncle  asked. 

"  We  must  not  let  him  go  without  having  a  word 
from  him,"  I  answered.  "  Wait  at  the  sacristy  door 
and  speak  to  him  as  he  comes  out,  and  learn — what 
you  can.  I  will  walk  to  the  aisles  yonder,  for  should 
he  see  me  he  will  be  suspicious  of  you.  We  won't  say 
anything  to  Daphne  about  this  yet." 

As  I  was  turning  away  I  caught  sight  of  Daphne, 
who,  having  gone  the  round  of  the  cathedral,  was  sit 
ting  near  the  picture  of  the  Madonna,  with  the  artist 
by  her  side.  They  were  chatting  away  as  confidentially 
as  if  there  were  no  one  in  the  world  but  themselves. 
The  sight  of  the  Italian  offering  his  homage  to  my 
beautiful  cousin  would  have  moved  my  jealousy  at  any 
other  time,  but  at  present  my  head  was  occupied  with 
the  tableau  at  the  confessional. 

"  Your  father  will  be  with  us  in  a  few  minutes, 
Daphne,"  I  said,  taking  a  seat  beside  her.  "  You  have 
seen  all  that  is  to  be  seen  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  have  to  thank  Mr.  Vasari  for  a  very  inter 
esting  lecture.  He  is  quite  a  learned  antiquary,  minus 
the  pedantry." 

"  Ah !  that  last  is  a  stroke  at  me,  I  suppose,"  I 
returned  carelessly,  without  looking  at  her.  My  eyes 
were  directed  toward  my  uncle,  whom  I  could  see  in  the 
distance,  keeping  watch  by  the  sacristy  door. 

"  May  I  ask  why  papa  is  playing  the  part  of  a 
statue?" 

Here  was  a  question!  But  I  was  equal  to  the 
occasion. 

"  He  fancies  he  saw  an  old  friend  of  his  enter  that 
room,  and  he  is  waiting  for  him  to  come  out." 

"  Why  doesn't  he  go  in  after  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  if  you  ask  Mr.  Vasari,  he  will  perhaps  tell 
you  (for  he  knows  better  than  I)  that  that  is  the 

90 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

priest's  private  room,  and  naturally  your  parent  is 
reluctant  to  intrude." 

"  True,  Miss  Leslie.  It  is  the  sacristy  of  Father 
Ignatius." 

"  Father  Ignatius  ?  Haven't  you  mentioned  his  name 
once  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  he  who  commissioned  me  to  paint  my 
unfortunate  Madonna,"  replied  the  artist,  glancing  at 
the  picture  above  his  head. 

"  What  sort  of  a  person  is  this  Father  Ignatius  ?  "  1 
asked  of  Angelo,  who  seemed  surprised  at  my  ad 
dressing  him,  as  well  he  might ;  it  was  so  rarely  I  did 
so.  "  I  saw  a  priest  just  now  with  a  very  remarkable 
type  of  head,  quite  like  an  antique  Roman's — bald, 
aquiline  nose,  keen  grey  eyes,  erect,  proud " 

"  Yes,  that  was  Father  Ignatius. 

"  A  high  dignitary  of  this  cathedral,  I  suppose  ?  "  I 
remarked. 

"  The  very  highest,  save  the  bishop,  whom  he  quite 
eclipses  by  his  vigorous  personality — supersedes,  in 
point  of  fact,  for  the  bishop  prefers  to  live  at  Campo, 
and  leaves  the  entire  control  of  Church  affairs  to 
Father  Ignatius." 

"  I  see.  The  bishop  is  le  roi  faineant,  and  Father 
Ignatius  mayor  of  the  palace." 

"  Just  so.  Yet  despite  his  love  of  power  he  is  a  good 
man,  and  every  one  in  Rivoli  loves  him.  He  was  a 
second  father  to  me  in  my  boyhood.  It  was  he  who 
first  directed  and  encouraged  me  in  the  study  of  paint 
ing,  but  of  late  he  has  looked  with  disapproval  on  my 
art." 

"  What !  After  your  brilliant  success  ? "  cried 
Daphne.  "  He  ought  to  be  proud  of  his  protege." 

"  He  is  vexed  because  I  have  turned  from  the 
mediaeval  school  with  its  '  Madonnas,'  '  Pietas,'  and 

91 


The  Weird  Picture 

'  Ecce  Homos,'  to  seek  inspiration  from  the  pages  of 
classic  history.  He  thinks  that  whatever  talent  a  man 
has  should  be  consecrated  to  the  service  of  the 
Church." 

It  was  ever  thus  with  Angelo.  No  matter  what  sub 
ject  was  being  discussed  he  always  contrived  to  drift 
down  to  art  before  long. 

"  What  a  pretty  girl  that  is  telling  her  beads  before 
yonder  crucifix  !  "  said  Daphne. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Italian,  surveying  the  girl's  figure 
with  his  artist's  eye.  "  She  would  make  a  beautiful 
model  for  my  '  Modesta  the  Martyr  ' — if  I  had  not  a 
fairer  form  in  view,"  he  murmured  in  a  lower  tone. 

Impatiently  I  turned  my  eyes  in  the  direction  of  that 
sentinel  my  uncle,  and  found  him  still  on  the  watch  at 
the  sacristy-door.  It  swung  open  at  last. 

To  my  disappointment,  however,  neither  priest  nor 
penitent  issued  forth,  but  a  man  who  had  every  appear 
ance  of  being  one  of  the  attendants  of  the  cathedral. 
He  was  walking  over  to  us. 

My  heart  beat  fiercely.  The  mystery  of  last  Christ 
mas  Eve  was  going  to  be  cleared  up ! 

The  belief  in  my  own  mind  that  the  attendant 
was  going  to  invite  me  to  the  priest's  room  in  order  to 
interview  the  aged  penitent  was  so  great  that  I  had 
actually  risen  to  meet  him — an  unnecessary  action  on 
my  part,  for  he  passed  by  without  regarding  me, 
and,  walking  up  to  Angelo's  picture  of  the  Madonna, 
he  removed  it  from  the  wall,  and  was  preparing  to  de 
part  with  it,  when  he  was  stopped  by  the  artist. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that  picture, 
Paolo  ?  "  inquired  Angelo,  to  whom  the  attendant  was 
evidently  well  known. 

"  I  am  taking  it  to  Father  Ignatius'  room,"  replied 
Paolo. 

92 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

"What  for?" 

"  Such  are  Father  Ignatius'  commands.  He  says  it 
is  to  hang  no  more  on  these  walls." 

"  No  more !    Why  not  ?    Did  he  give  any  reason  ?  " 

"  None  at  all — to  me.  He  seems  extremely  angry, 
and  when  he  bade  me  do  this  his  voice  was  sharper 
than  I  have  ever  heard  it  before.  '  Take  that  man's 
handiwork  down/  he  cried,  '  and  burn  it.'  " 

"Burn  it!  Did  Father  Ignatius  say  that?"  said 
Angelo  in  a  tone  of  concern. 

"  He  did,  Master  Angelo,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  told 
him  that  you  were  here  in  the  cathedral  sitting  by 
the  picture,  and  that  you  would  be  sure  to  ask  why 
I  was  taking  it  down.  '  Remove  it  at  once,  and  burn 
it,  I  tell  you,'  was  the  only  answer  he  would  give 
me." 

"  You  may  tell  Father  Ignatius  for  me,  Paolo,  that 
I  look  upon  this  as  an  insult,  and 

"  You  must  tell  him  that  yourself,  Master  Angelo," 
replied  Paolo,  speaking  with  considerable  freedom. 
"  I  have  a  sister  in  Purgatory  whom  he  is  going  to  set 
free  next  week  by  his  prayers.  He'd  keep  her  in  Pur 
gatory  forever  if  I  gave  him  your  message.  You  know 
the  fiery  stuff  old  Padre  Ignatio  is  made  of." 

And  with  these  words,  so  spoken  that  I  could  not 
tell  whether  he  were  in  jest  or  earnest,  the  man 
marched  off,  carrying  the  picture  with  him. 

The  artist  stared  after  him  with  so  dark  a  look  on 
his  face  that  if  Paolo  had  been  in  Purgatory  in  place  of 
his  sister,  with  Angelo  for  mass-priest,  Paolo's  deten 
tion  would  certainly  have  been  a  long  one. 

"  What  can  this  mean  ?  "  muttered  the  artist.  "  I 
shall  see  Father  Ignatius  to-night,  and  shall  ask  him 
the  meaning  of  this  affront." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Daphne,  "  the  priest  has  seen  me, 

93 


The  Weird  Picture 

and  is  vexed  to  think  that  the  Madonna  he  asked  you 
to  paint,  instead  of  being,  as  he  supposed,  an  ideal  face, 
is  simply  the  portrait  of  an  Englishwoman — and  of  an 
Englishwoman  who  is  a  heretic  in  his  eyes,  you  know." 

The  artist  was  silent,  and,  turning  to  Daphne,  I 
said: 

"  I  will  just  ask  uncle  how  long  he  is  going  to  remain 
standing  over  there." 

Walking  off  quickly,  I  overtook  the  attendant  before 
he  reached  the  sacristy  door. 

"  You  really  do  not  know,  then,"  said  I  to  him,  "  why 
Father  Ignatius  wishes  the  picture  to  be  destroyed  ?  " 

"  I  know  no  more  than  I  told  Master  Angelo  just 
now,  sir." 

My  uncle  at  this  juncture  approached  us,  wondering 
much  to  see  Angelo's  Madonna  in  the  hands  of  the  at 
tendant.  Addressing  Paolo,  he  said,  while  pointing  to 
the  sacristy  door : 

"  The  old  man  who  went  in  here  with  the  priest — is 
he  still  within?  I  want  to  see  him." 

"  He  is  gone.    Left  a  few  minutes  since." 

"  Gone  ?    Left  ?    What !  both  of  them  ?  " 

"  Both  of  them." 

"  They  did  not  pass  through  this  door-way  then  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.    They  left  the  sacristy  by  a  side-door." 

"  Confound  it !  Baffled  !  "  exclaimed  my  uncle  with 
a  gesture  of  impatience,  and  stamping  his  foot. 
"  After  all  this  waiting,  too !  What  are  we  to  do, 
Frank?" 

"  Do  you  want  very  much  to  see  this  old  man  ?  " 
said  Paolo.  "  Perhaps,"  and  he  looked  around,  as  if 
to  see  that  no  priest  were  by — "  perhaps  I  may  be 
able  to  help  you." 

"Help  us?"  said  my  uncle.  "Good!  You  will  be 
the  very  man  for  our  purpose.  Ah  !  "  he  continued,  as 

94 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

he  saw  the  fellow's  face  gleam  with  the  hope  of  a  re 
ward,  "  you  worship  the  golden  calf,  I  see.  We  under 
stand  each  other.  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Paolo." 

"  Paolo,  eh  ?  None  other  ?  Perhaps  you  prefer  a 
single  name.  The  great  men  of  Greece  had  but  one. 
Well,  Paolo,  you  must  know  every  face  in  this  little 
town.  Tell  us  whether  this  old  man  is  an  inhabitant 
of  Rivoli." 

"  He  is  a  complete  stranger  to  me,"  replied  the 
attendant.  "  I  have  never  seen  his  face  till  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  If,  Paolo,  you  can  find  out  for  us  what  his  name 
is,  where  he  is  staying,  whence  he  came,  and  what  busi 
ness  brings  him  here,"  my  uncle  continued,  "  I  will  give 
you  more  money  than  you  can  earn  in  a  twelvemonth. 
There  is  an  earnest  of  it,"  and  he  pressed  some  silver 
pieces  into  the  fellow's  palm.  "  But  conduct  your  in 
quiries  very  secretly  and  cautiously.  You  understand  ? 
We  do  not  wish  him  to  suspect  he  is  being  watched. 
We  are  tourists  staying  at  the  Chalet  Varina — you 
know  it — a  house  perched  on  a  crag  on  the  mountain 
side,  two  miles  from  here " 

"Chalet  Varina!  What,  Andrea  Valla's  house— 
the  great  tenor's  ?  " 

"  Ah !  the  great  tenor's.  He  sings  in  the  choir  here, 
I  believe.  I  see  you  know  the  house.  Ask  for  Mr. 
Leslie.  But  stay,"  he  ejaculated,  as  the  thought  passed 
through  his  mind  that  if  the  fellow  called  at  the  chalet 
the  matter  would  have  to  be  explained  to  Daphne — 
"  stay.  I  will  meet  you  this  evening  at  eight.  Be  in 
the  cathedral  square  at  that  hour.  Can  you  contrive 
to  be  there?" 

The  man  nodded  assent  and  then  pushing  open 
the  door  of  the  sacristy  to  its  full  extent,  showed  us 

95 


The  Weird  Picture 

that  his  words  were  true,  and  that  both  priest  and 
penitent  had  quitted  the  chamber. 

"  Stay,"  I  said,  ere  the  door  closed  ;  "  ask  him,  uncle, 
whether  Father  Ignatius  and  the  old  man  talked  before 
him,  and  if  so,  what  they  said." 

My   uncle   put   this   question,   and    Paolo   replied : 

"  As  they  pushed  open  the  door,  I  heard  Father 
Ignatius  say,  '  When  do  you  say  this  happened  ? ' 
and  the  old  man  answered,  '  Last  Christmas  Eve : ' 
and  that's  all  I  heard,  for  when  they  saw  me 
they  stopped  talking  at  once,  and  Father  Ignatius 
ordered  me  in  a  voice  of  thunder  to  go  and 
take  down  Master  Angelo's  Madonna  and  burn  it 
here  in  the  sacristy,  though  for  what  reason  I  can't 
make  out ;  and  then,  as  I  said  just  now,  they  went 
out  by  the  side-door,  and  that's  all  I  know  of  the 
matter,  and —  But  there's  Serafino,  the  deacon,  look 
ing  at  me ;  he's  sure  to  ask  why  you  gave  me  this 
money." 

And  in  some  trepidation  Paolo  closed  the  door  and 
occupied  himself  with  whatever  work  he  had  to  do 
within. 

My  uncle  had  become  the  personification  of  gravity. 

' '  Last  Christmas  Eve,'  "  he  muttered,  speaking 
slowly.  "  Did  you  hear  what  he  said,  Frank?  " 

"  I  heard  it,  uncle." 

"  That  old  man's  confession  must  h  had  some 
reference  to  George." 

"  That's  what  I've  been  fancying  all  along." 

"  You  say  the  priest  started  up  excitedly  at  the 
recital  of  the  other?  " 

"  Yes,  with  a  look  of  unspeakable  horror.  I  was 
watching  him  closely,  and  could  not  mistake  the 
expression." 

"What    caused    the    priest's    excitement?       Some 

96 


The  Man  at  the  Confessional 

terrible  crime  that  the  old  man  was  relating.  If  so, 
whose  ?  His  own  or  another's  ?  " 

My  uncle  stared  slowly  round  at  the  stained  case 
ments  and  sacred  pictures,  as  if  expecting  an  answer 
from  them. 

"  Not  his  own.  I  will  never  believe  that  old  man 
guilty  of  crime ;  his  face  is  too  noble." 

"  Face  is  no  index  to  character,"  he  returned ;  and 
then  he  added  reflectively :  "  and  no  sooner  does  this 
priest  quit  the  confessional  than  he  orders  Angelo's 
picture  to  be  destroyed.  Frank,  what  are  we  to  make 
of  this  ?  "  he  added,  a  curious  expression  passing  over 
his  face  as  he  glanced  at  the  distant  figure  of  the  artist. 

"  Oh,  that's  easily  explained,"  I  rejoined.  "  The 
priest,  as  he  sat  in  the  confessional-box,  saw  Daphne 
and  Angelo,  and  no  doubt  he  considers  that  Madonna 
a  sacrilegious  piece  of  work." 

"  Ah !  true,  true,"  he  replied,  his  brow  clearing 
instantly  ;  and  after  a  pause  he  added :  "  Frank,  say 
nothing  to  Daphne  of  our  discovery.  It  will  only  excite 
her  unnecessarily,  and  revive  memories  of  George." 

"  You  may  depend  on  my  silence.  But  if  you  wish 
her  to  suspect  nothing,  just  try  to  infuse  a  little  more 
gaiety  into  your  countenance,  for  you  are  looking 
as  grave  as  a  judge." 

"  I  look  as  I  feel,  then.  I  am  afraid  I  should  make  a 
bad  detect-'"-?,:,  my  face  always  betrays  my  emotions. 
But  \vha_  ^.;all  we  say  to  Daphne,  for  she  has  been 
watching  us  ?  She  is  sure — women  are  so  confoundedly 
curious — to  ask  the  meaning  of  this  long  vigil  of 
mine,  and  of  the  bribe  to  the  attendant." 

"  I  have  told  her,"  said  I,  as  we  moved  off  to  join 
her  and  the  artist,  "  that  you  fancied  you  saw  an  old 
friend  of  yours  enter  that  sacristy.  So  keep  up  the 
farce." 

97 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  Now,  papa,"  were  Daphne's  first  words,  "  why  have 
you  been  standing  by  that  door  so  long?" 

"  Hem !  "  replied  her  parent,  clearing  his  throat, 
and  pausing  to  collect  his  inventive  faculties.  "  I 
thought  I  saw  a  German  friend  of  mine  pass  into  that 
vestry — the  great  Professor  Dulascanbee — gathering 
materials  for  his  learned  work,  Ecclesiologia  Hel 
vetica,  but  I  was  mistaken.  A  silver  fee  to  the 
attendant  has  elicited  the  fact  that  the  man  in  the 
vestry  doesn't  resemble  my  learned  friend  at  all ; 
he  always  wears  blue  glasses.  Well,  my  pseudo- 
Madonna,"  he  continued,  touching  his  pretty  daughter 
under  the  chin,  "  what  say  you  if  we  quit  this  '  dim 
religious  light '  ?  " 

No  one  offering  any  opposition  to  this,  we  passed 
out  through  the  porch.  On  the  top  of  the  cathedral 
steps  Angelo  paused. 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  any  more  to-day,  Miss  Leslie. 
I  have  an  appointment  to  keep,  and  must  leave  you 
at  the  foot  of  these  stairs.  It  is  a  high  festal  day 
to-morrow  in  Rivoli.  May  I  hope  to  see  you  present 
at  early  Mass  in  the  morning?  You  love  music,  and 
I  assure  you,  you  will  find  the  singing  beautiful ; 
Mozart's  Twelfth  Mass." 

Daphne  with  a  smile  promised  to  be  present  if  the 
weather  were  propitious ;  and  thus  ended  our  morning 
in  the  cathedral. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHAT   THE  "  STANDARD  "    SAID  OF  THE   PICTURE 

WE  did  not  return  immediately  to  the  chalet, 
but  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  exploring  the 
antiquities  of  Rivoli.  Daphne,  from  her  re 
semblance  to  the  cathedral  Madonna,  drew  attention 
wherever  she  went.  She  frequently  expressed  her  an 
noyance  at  the  staring  to  which  she  was  exposed,  es 
pecially  when  she  learned  from  some  semi-audible  re 
marks  that  she  was  regarded  as  the  artist's  future 
bride ! 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  secretly  delighted  at  all 
this,  knowing  that  with  the  increase  of  her  displeasure 
came  a  proportional  decrease  in  the  artist's  chances 
of  winning  her.  It  will  be  readily  guessed  that  I 
did  not  let  the  grass  grow  beneath  my  feet,  and  in  the 
absence  of  my  rival  I  used  every  opportunity  of 
strengthening  my  hold  upon  her  affections. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  purple  hues 
of  twilight  were  suffusing  the  air,  and  the  bell  of  the 
Angelus  was  sounding  softly  from  the  cathedral-tower, 
Daphne  and  I  set  off  home.  My  uncle,  promising  to 
follow  us  later,  lingered  behind,  on  pretence  of  await 
ing  the  arrival  of  the  diligence  from  Campo  (the 
nearest  large  town  to  Rivoli),  with  its  slender  freight 
of  letters  and  newspapers,  his  real  object  being  to 
keep  his  appointment  with  the  cathedral  attendant. 

Old  Ursula  had  prepared  a  dainty  repast  for  us, 

99 


The  Weird  Picture 

and  when  the  meal  was  over  Daphne  lit  the  lamp,  drew 
the  curtains,  and  took  her  seat  by  the  fire. 

"  Read  to  me,  Frank.  There  is  a  whole  heap  of 
newspapers  over  there." 

I  sat  on  a  footstool  at  her  feet,  with  the  file  of 
journals  beside  me,  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire,  and 
wished  that  Angelo  were  looking  through  the  case 
ment,  to  see  how  cosy  and  comfortable  we  were. 

"  Where  shall  I  begin  ?  " 

"  Anywhere  you  like." 

"  Very  well.  '  Theatre  of  Varieties,  Westminster ; 
every  night,  at  8 130,  Tottie  Rosebud  will  sing  "  Then 
she  wunk  the  other  eye."  Admission — '  " 

"  O  Frank  !    How  horrid  you  are  !  " 

"  Am  I  ?  You  told  me  to  read  anywhere,  so  I  took 
the  first  paragraph  that  my  eyes  fell  on.  However,  as 
you  don't  like  that,  I'll  turn  to  something  else.  '  Letter 
from  Paris.'  Would  you  like  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  will  do,"  she  replied,  composing  her 
dainty  little  person  comfortably  in  the  big  armchair. 

So,  compliant  with  her  will,  I  began  to  read  the 
lively  letter  of  that  mysterious  personality,  "  Our 
Own  Correspondent,"  keeping  a  cautious  eye  ahead, 
in  case  I  should  be  landed  before  I  was  aware  of  it 
on  some  Parisian  doings  whose  recital  might  offend 
the  susceptibilities  of  my  fair  cousin,  equally  with  those 
of  that  staid  old  lady,  the  British  Matron.  I  had  not 
read  more  than  half  a  column,  when  my  eye  lighted 
upon  a  name  that  drew  from  me  an  exclamation  of 
surprise. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Frank  ?  " 

"  Here's  that  fellow  Vasari's  name." 

"  Fellow  Vasari,  indeed !  "  returned  Daphne  with 
mock  dignity.  "  Do  you  mean  the  eminent  artist, 
Signor  Angelo  Vasari  ?  " 

IOO 


What  the  "Standard"  Said  of  the  Picture 

"  That's  it.  The  oil-and-colour  man.  Here's  a 
notice  of  his  famous  daub.  This  must  be  the  critique 
he  was  referring  to." 

"  O  go  on,  Frank !  Read  it,  read  it !  "  she  cried 
eagerly. 

The  praises  of  a  rival  are  never  very  pleasant  read 
ing.  They  become  doubly  unpleasant  when  the  beloved 
object  is  a  listener.  Pity  me,  then  at  having  to  read 
the  following  little  Vasariad! 

'  The  principal  topic  of  conversation  among  art- 
circles  at  present  is  a  very  remarkable  picture,  called 
in  the  catalogue  "  The  Fall  of  Caesar."  The  artist, 
who  till  yesterday  was  completely  unknown  to  the 
public,  is  one  Angelo  Vasari,  an  Italian  by  birth,  who 
has,  however,  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in 
the  art-schools  of  London.  He  is  said  to  be  a  de 
scendant  of  the  sixteenth-century  Vasari,  the  friend 
of  Popes  and  Princes,  who  has  earned  considerable 
fame  by  his  Lives  of  the  Painters.  Though  but  twenty- 
five  years  of  age,  this  new  artist  has  produced  a  work 
that,  without  exaggeration,  may  be  ranked  with  the 
finest  compositions  of  Dore  or  Gerome.  What  he 
may  be  expected  to  accomplish  when  his  genius  is 
fully  matured  is  shadowed  forth  by  his  present  pic 
ture.  What  causes  great  surprise  is  the  fact  that  up 
to  the  present  time  Vasari  has  never  produced  a  work 
that  deserved  to  rank  above  mediocrity.  Indeed,  so 
devoid  of  talent  have  his  previous  compositions  been 
that  the  name  "II  Divino"  was  bestowed  upon  him, 
not  from  his  likeness  to  Raphael,  but  from  his  unlike- 
ness.  We  are  given  to  understand  that  when  the 
artist  was  informed  of  the  nickname,  he  replied  uncon 
cernedly:  "Ah!  then  I  must  endeavour  to  merit  the 
appellation." 

"  '  "  'Tis  not  in  mortals  to  command  success ;"  but 

101 


The  Weird  Picture 

II  Divino  has  both  deserved  and  commanded  it.  His 
toil  and  perseverance  have  enabled  him  to  turn  the 
tables  completely  upon  his  critics,  and  from  a  poor, 
obscure,  struggling  artist  he  has  become  elevated  to  a 
position  of  fame  and  wealth,  for  the  profits  drawn 
from  the  crowds  that  have  flocked  to  view  the  picture 
have  been  enormous. 

'  That  a  young  man  accustomed  only  to  paint  me 
diocrities  should,  as  it  were,  by  one  stroke  produce  a 
masterpiece  is  indeed  a  marvel,  and  there  are  not  want 
ing  tongues  to  say  that  "  The  Fall  of  Caesar  "  is  not 
the  work  of  Vasari  at  all — an  absurd  statement,  for 
it  is  not  likely  that  the  real  author  of  such  a  remarkable 
work  of  genius  would  be  so  self-sacrificing  as  to  give 
his  glory  to  another.  If  there  be  any  truth  in  this 
rumour,  it  is  probably  founded  on  the  fact  that  some 
one  may  have  collaborated  with  Vasari  to  produce  a 
few  minor  points.  If  the  latter  be  not  the  author  of 
"  The  Fall  of  Caesar,"  then  assuredly  his  next  work  will 
betray  him,  unless  indeed  he  has  determined  to  rest 
his  fame  on  this  one  picture  only.  But  no  importance 
is  to  be  attached  to  the  mysterious  rumours  current  to 
account  for  the  artist's  success. 

" '  The  Vasari  Gallery  is  situated  in  the  Rue  de 
Sevres,  and  admission  is  obtained  by  the  payment  of 
two  francs.  What  the  visitor  first  sees  on  entering 
the  apartment  devoted  to  this  masterpiece  is  a  wide 
doorway  at  the  farther  end  draped  on  each  side  with 
curtains  between  which  can  be  seen  a  court  apparently 
open  to  the  sky,  since  glimpses  of  a  heavenly  blue  are 
visible  between  lofty  columns.  By  one  of  these  col 
umns  rises  the  statue  of  a  warrior  mounted  on  a 
pedestal,  and  at  the  base,  with  arrowy  beams  of 
sunlight  streaming  over  it,  lies  a  prostrate  form, 
which  requires  no  second  glance  to  certify  that  it  is 

1 02 


What  the  "Standard"  Said  of  the  Picture 

a  dead  body,  especially  as  the  bloodstained  weapons 
that  have  accomplished  the  deed  are  scattered  on  the 
pavement  around. 

"  '  The  spectator  (not  in  the  secret)  hurries  forward, 
and  on  arriving  at  the  end  of  the  apartment  can  hardly 
be  persuaded  that  no  doorway  exists,  and  that  the 
whole  scene  is  simply  a  picture  painted  on  canvas. 
Yet  so  it  is.  The  picture  is  draped  on  each  side  with 
curtains  so  disposed  as  to  give  it  the  appearance  of  a 
doorway.  The  light  entering  the  apartment  from  above 
strikes  the  picture  at  a  certain  angle,  and,  aided  by 
the  marvellous  perspective  skill  of  the  artist's  brush, 
the  picture  has  every  appearance  of  being  an  actual 
scene  beyond  the  room  in  which  the  spectator  stands, 
and  in  which  some  terrible  tragedy  has  taken  place. 
The  illusion  is  perfect. 

'  We  have  indicated  the  principal  features  of  the 
picture ;  the  fallen  Caesar  with  his  toga  wrapped  partly 
round  him,  the  statue  of  Pompey  rising  above,  a 
tesselated  pavement  stained  with  blood,  here  and  there 
a  discarded  dagger,  columnar  architecture  in  the  back 
ground  :  such  are  the  simple  elements  presented  by 
this  work  of  art.  The  fidelity  to  archaeological  details 
displayed  in  all  parts  of  the  picture  has  satisfied  the 
judgment  of  every  antiquary  who  has  examined  the 
work. 

"  '  The  picture,  as  we  have  intimated,  contains  but 
two  figures — a  disappointing  number,  one  might 
think ;  and  yet  it  is  no  paradox  to  say  that  had  the 
picture  contained  more  it  would  have  revealed  less. 
Had  the  artist,  for  example,  represented  Marc  Antony 
mourning  over  the  dead  body,  and  drawing  eloquence 
from  its  pitiable  aspect,  the  eloquence  that  was  to 
excite  the  Forum,  or  had  he  given  us  the  conspirators 
waving  their  swords  aloft,  their  faces  radiant  with 

103 


The  Weird  Picture 

the  enthusiasm  of  liberty,  he  would  have  drawn  off 
the  spectator's  attention  from  the  point  which  most  de 
serves  praise.  In  the  multiplicity  of  details  we  should 
perhaps  have  lost  sight  of  the  marvellous  manner  in 
which  the  painter  has  triumphed  over  the  difficulty  of 
his  subject  in  regard  to  the  face  of  the  dead  Csesar,  ex 
pressing  therein  all  the  varying  emotions  that  must 
have  agitated  the  great  Dictator's  mind  at  the  moment 
of  his  death. 

1 '  How  often  the  painter,  desirous  of  depicting  the 
human  countenance  lit  up  by  some  sublime  feeling,  has 
had  to  lament  the  impotence  of  his  art ! 

'  Timanthes,  unable  to  express  the  death-emotion 
on  the  face  of  Agamemnon,  conceals  the  head  of  the 
king  in  a  purple  robe  ;  Da  Vinci  in  "  The  Last  Supper," 
despairing  of  diffusing  a  ray  of  divinity  over  the  fea 
tures  of  the  Saviour,  lays  down  his  pencil,  and  leaves 
nothing  but  a  blank  oval  for  the  face. 

'  Who  shall  succeed  where  such  masters  fail  ? 
Echo  answers — Vasari !  A  bold  statement,  but  a  true 
one! 

'  Mr.  Vasari  might  reasonably  and  with  perfect 
fidelity  to  historic  truth  have  adopted  the  method  of 
Timanthes,  since,  every  schoolboy  knows,  that  Caesar 
fell  with  his  head  concealed  in  the  folds  of  his  toga ; 
but,  disdaining  the  pusillanimity  of  such  a  method, 
the  artist  has  permitted  the  whole  of  Caesar's  face  to 
be  seen,  for  the  purpose  of  delineating  with  ghastly 
realism  the  expression  of  a  dead  face.  The  effect  of 

the  sunlight  quivering  on '  " 

At  this  point  I  paused  to  look  up  at  Daphne,  whose 
eyes  were  eloquently  expressive  of  the  interest  she  was 
taking  in  the  subject  of  my  reading,  and  remarked 
quietly : 

!t  To  be  continued  in  our  next." 

104 


What  the  "Standard"  Said  of  the  Picture 

"  Go  on,"  she  said  eagerly.     "  Don't  stop." 

It  was  with  a  certain  amount  of  malice  that  I  re 
plied  : 

"  There  is  no  more." 

"  No  more  ?  It  doesn't  end  in  the  middle  of  a  sen 
tence?  " 

"  Probably  not.  But  some  one  has  been  kind  enough 
to  tear  off  the  bottom  of  this  sheet  just  at  the  very  line 
I  have  arrived  at." 

"  Oh,  how  annoying !  Isn't  it  continued  at  the  top 
of  the  next  column  ?  " 

"  Fortunately — no." 

"  Fortunately  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I'm  tired  of  it ;  it's  the  essence  of  dulness.  I 
marvel  that  the  writer  is  still  at  large." 

"  Who  can  have  torn  it,"  she  said,  taking  no  notice 
of  my  gibe.  "  Not  uncle,  I'm  sure.  Oh,  I  know  now. 
It  was  Angelo  himself  that  did  it.  Don't  you  remem 
ber?  This  morning,  when  he  lit  his  cigar." 

The  memory  of  this  last  event  invested  the  news 
paper  article  with  an  interest  which  it  did  not  before 
possess  in  my  eyes.  I  recalled  the  artist's  uneasy  man 
ner  when  asking  whether  my  uncle  or  myself  had  read 
the  critique  on  his  picture,  his  evident  satisfaction 
when  he  found  we  had  not,  the  triumphant  air  with 
which  he  had  lit  his  cigar  with  a  piece  of  newspaper ; 
and  this  conduct  disposed  me  to  think  that  he  had 
designedly  torn  off  the  bottom  of  the  column  contain 
ing  the  end  of  the  article. 

The  more  I  dwelt  on  the  matter  the  more  my  opinion 
became  strengthened.  I  was  as  anxious  now  as  Daphne 
to  read  the  critique  to  the  end. 

"  How  curious  that  Angelo  should  tear  the  very 
paper  referring  to  himself!  "  remarked  Daphne. 

"Very!"  I  responded  drily. 

105 


The  Weird  Picture 

"Can't  we  get  another  copy  of  this  Standard?" 

"  Not  at  Rivoli.  Rome  or  Paris  is  the  nearest  place 
to  send  to,  and  then  it  will  be  at  least  four  days  in 
arriving.  Besides,  it's  an  old  copy,  and  very  likely  no 
more  are  left." 

"  How  provoking !  You'll  send  to-morrow  for  an 
other  copy,  won't  you  Frank  ?  " 

"  Most  readily.  I,  too,  wish  to  see  the  end  of  this 
article." 

"  Why,  you  said  just  now  that  it  was  the  essence  of 
dulness." 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  what  a  variable  mortal  I  am." 

"  How  well  the  paper  speaks  of  him !  "  said  Daphne, 
taking  up  the  Standard,  and  dwelling  writh  more  pleas 
ure  than  I  cared  to  see  on  the  flattering  language  be 
stowed  on  the  artist.  "  Angelo  isn't  vain,  that's  easy 
to  be  seen.  Didn't  you  notice  how  reluctant  he  was 
this  morning  to  speak  of  his  picture?  One  had  to 
draw  it  out  of  him,  as  it  were.  I  am  glad  he  has  made 
a  name  at  last.  '  There  are  not  wanting  tongues,'  " 
she  continued,  reading  from  the  paper,  "  '  to  say  that 
it  is  not  the  work  of  Vasari  at  all.'  What  a  shame 
to  say  that !  "  she  ejaculated  with  considerable  indigna 
tion.  "  When  his  pictures  were  not  very  good  the 
critics  sneered  at  him  and  called  him  '  II  Divino ' ;  and 
now  that  he  has  produced  something  good  they  suggest 
that  some  one  else  painted  it  for  him.  Just  like  the 
critics !  Fancy  Angelo  being  a  descendant  of  the  great 
Vasari,  too !  " 

"  No  great  honour,"  I  returned,  as  eager  to  depreci 
ate  the  artist  as  Daphne  was  to  exalt  him.  "  His  great 
ancestor's  pictures  have  always  been  considered  daubs  ; 
and  as  for  the  famous  book,  Lives  of  the  Painters,  it 
is  supposed  not  to  have  been  written  by  Vasari." 

Critics  will  bear  me  out  in  these  statements ;  but 

106 


What  the  "Standard"  Said  of  the  Picture 

Daphne  scorned  criticism,  and  would  not  listen  to  any 
reflections  on  Angelo's  ancestor. 

"  Ah !  I  suppose  it's  the  case  of  Shakespeare  v. 
Bacon  over  again.  Well,  for  my  part  I  believe  in 
Shakespeare.  Say  good-night  to  papa  for  me." 

And  she  danced  gaily  off  to  bed  at  an  earlier  hour 
than  usual.  Was  she  going  to  dream  of  the  artist? 

Now,  ever  since  my  interest  had  been  roused  in  the 
critique  of  the  picture  my  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  the 
fireplace,  where  Angelo,  after  lighting  his  cigar,  had 
thrown  the  burnt  paper,  and  in  one  corner  of  the  fender 
I  had  fancied  I  could  perceive  a  charred  piece  of  paper. 
Accordingly  after  Daphne  had  gone  I  pounced  on  this 
fragment.  It  crumbled  to  black  powder  in  my  hands, 
save  one  little  unburnt  piece." 

This  piece  contained  six  words  only ;  yet  they  were 
sufficient  to  cause  my  pulse  to  throb  more  quickly : 

an  Anglo-Indian  officer  to  judge. 

That  was  all ;  and  I  had  some  difficulty  in  making  out 
even  those  few  words,  owing  to  the  blackened  aspect  of 
the  paper.  I  did  not  doubt  that  they  formed  a  part  of 
the  critique,  and  that  the  paragraph  in  which  they 
occurred  was  one  that  the  artist  was  anxious  to  con 
ceal  from  us. 

The  memory  of  my  lost  brother  had  been  strangely 
revived  by  the  events  of  the  day,  and  the  phrase  "  an 
Anglo-Indian  officer  "  naturally  and  immediately  asso 
ciated  itself  with  his  name.  It  was  impossible  in  my 
then  state  of  ignorance  to  establish  a  connexion  be 
tween  my  brother  and  Angelo's  picture,  and  the 
various  hypotheses  I  framed  to  account  for  the  admis 
sion  of  his  name  into  the  art-critique  would  fill  a  chap 
ter. 

107 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  It  was  a  mean  trick  of  Angelo's,"  I  muttered,  "  to 
mutilate  that  paper.  I  am  certain  it  contained  a 
reference  to  George.  I  would  give  fifty  pounds  to 
know  his  reason  for  so  doing.  No  matter;  this  little 
mystification  can't  last  very  long,  for  I'll  send  to  Eng 
land  for  another  copy  to-morrow." 

From  the  picture  my  thoughts  wandered  to  the 
hidalgo  whom  Angelo  had  represented  as  having  pur 
chased  it,  and  with  a  view  to  learning  something,  how 
ever  brief,  about  this  grandee,  I  took  down  from  the 
shelf  a  book  on  the  Spanish  peerage,  and  turned  over 
its  pages.  I  was  still  occupied  thus  when  my  uncle  re 
turned. 

"Have  you  discovered  anything?"  was  my  first 
question. 

"  Absolutely  nothing." 

"  Paolo  had  nothing  to  reveal  ?  " 

"  Paolo  was  not  there.  I  was  in  the  cathedral  square 
by  eight,  but  could  see  nothing  of  him.  I  looked  in 
at  the  cathedral,  too.  It  was  bright  with  lamps,  be 
ing  the  eve  of  a  festa ;  but  he  was  not  there ;  so,  after 
two  hours'  patient  watching  and  waiting,  I  gave  it  up 
in  disgust." 

"  We  are  sure  to  see  him  at  early  Mass ;  his  duties 
will  take  him  there." 

"  Probably,"  replied  my  uncle,  sinking  into  the  arm 
chair  lately  vacated  by  Daphne,  and  lighting  a  cigar. 
"  But  what  ponderous  tome  are  you  poring  over  so 
studiously  ?  " 

"  The  Spanish  Peerage." 

"  Ah !  take  St.  Paul's  advice,  '  Beware  of  endless 
genealogies,'  for  they  are  dull  reading." 

"  Not  when  one  has  a  motive  for  studying  them." 

"  A  motive  ?  Great  Jupiter !  what  has  made  you 
take  so  sudden  an  interest  in  the  hidalgos  ?  " 

108 


What  the  "Standard"  Said  of  the  Picture 

"  You  remember  to  whom  Angelo  said  he  had  sold 
his  picture?  " 

"  The  Spanish  baron,  De  Argandarez.  Ah !  I  see. 
you  are  looking  him  up." 

"  I  am ;  and,  do  you  know,  I  cannot  find  the  name 
anywhere  in  this  book." 

"  You  haven't  looked  in  the  right  place." 

"  Well,  here  is  the  book ;  examine  it  for  yourself. 
Here  is  the  list  of  barons.  Find  De  Argandarez." 

"  Humph !  I  have  no  wish  to  qualify  myself  for  a 
Spanish  herald.  I'll  take  your  word  for  it  that  the 
name  of  Argandarez  is  not  here,  merely  remarking 
that  the  book  is  dated  1898,  and  that  therefore  the 
fellow  may  have  been  created  a  baron  since  then,  which 
will  account  for  the  omission  of  his  name." 

"  What !  When  Angelo  called  him  an  old  hidalgo  of 
Aragon,  and  spoke  of  his  ancestral  walls,  or  ancestral 
castle,  or  something  similar !  At  any  rate,  he  used  the 
word  ancestral." 

"  Ha !  I  remember  something  of  the  sort,"  my  uncle 
said,  and  the  alert  glance  in  his  eye  belied  the  indiffer 
ence  in  his  tone.  "  You  are  certain  the  name  does  not 
occur  in  this  book  ?  Hum !  Unless  it  be  an  editorial 
oversight,  our  noble  grandee  would  seem  to  have  no 
existence,  save  in  the  imagination  of  Angelo.  II  Divino 
is  slightly  given  to  romancing." 

"  II  Divino  must  have  had  a  motive  for  the — lie," 
I  replied,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  last  word,  as  a 
protest  against  my  uncle's  euphemism.  "  He  evi 
dently  wishes  the  destination  of  his  picture  to  remain 
unknown  to  us." 

"  Why  should  he  wish  that  ?  And  even  if  he  does, 
it  is  impossible  for  him  to  conceal  it.  The  sale  of 
so  notable  a  work  of  art  would  be  mentioned  in  all  the 
papers,  together  with  the  name  of  the  buyer." 

109 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  Not  necessarily.  An  agent  may  have  bought  it  for 
a  client  who  wishes  his  name  to  be  kept  secret.  Or 
the  sale  may  have  been  a  private  affair  between  Angelo 
and  the  purchaser." 

"  Granted,"  he  agreed.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
Frank,  there's  something  about  Angelo's  success  I  can't 
understand.  How,  after  his  many  failures,  he  has  con 
trived,  by  the  exhibition  of  one  picture  only,  to  acquire 
so  great  a  name  is  a  mystery." 

"  So  the  public  seem  to  think.  Here  is  the  Standard's 
account  of  it." 

I  passed  the  paper  to  my  uncle,  who  read  as  far  as  he 
could,  and  then  exclaimed  : 

'''  The  end  has  been  torn  off !  " 

"  Yes,  by  Angelo  this  morning  when  he  lit  his  cigar  ; 
designedly  torn  off,  I  believe.  This  is  a  fragment  of 
the  burnt  piece,"  I  said,  laying  it  before  him. 

My  uncle  did  not  betray  the  excitement  that  I  had 
expected  of  him. 

"  So  you  think  the  mutilation  of  this  newspaper  in 
tentional  ?  "  he  asked  with  a  half-smile. 

"  I  am  certain  of  it." 

"  How  suspicious  you  are  growing  of  II  Divino !  A 
lover's  jealousy,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  knocking  the  ash 
of  his  cigar  into  the  fender. 

"  There  was  something  in  that  paper  that  Angelo 
did  not  wish  us  to  see,"  I  replied.  "  That  something, 
whatever  it  was,  was  probably  peculiar  to  this  paper, 
and  Angelo  supposes  that  if  we  are  prevented  from 
taking  note  of  it  now,  we  shall  never  hear  of  it 
again." 

My  uncle  regarded  me  with  a  look  of  good- 
humoured  surprise  before  taking  a  whiff  again  at  his 
cigar. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  he  returned.    "  My  dear  Frank,  what- 

no 


What  the  "Standard"  Said  of  the  Picture 

ever  was  in  the  Standard  cannot  be  a  secret.  It's  ab 
surd  to  suppose  that  Angelo  is  trying  to  keep  from  us 
that  with  which  a  large  number  of  the  reading  public 
is  already  familiar." 

"  Yes,  but  the  reading  public  are  not,  like  us,  behind 
the  scenes  and  familiar  with  the  artist.  In  a  sentence 
they  would  pass  over  as  of  no  note  we,  who  can  read 
between  the  lines,  might  discover  something." 

"  Well,  what  is  this  something  we  might  discover  ?  " 

" '  An  Anglo-Indian  officer,'  "  I  said,  tracing  the 
words  with  my  finger.  "  George  is  an  Anglo-Indian 
officer ;  so  are  his  chief  friends.  '  The  Anglo-Indian 
officer '  alluded  to  here  is  either  George  himself — and, 
if  so,  this  passage  would  afford  a  clue  to  his  movements 
— or  it  is  a  friend  of  his,  recently  returned  from  India, 
and  from  whom  information  respecting  George  might 
be  obtained." 

"  Granting  your  inference,  what  motive  has  Angelo 
for  wishing  to  conceal  the  fact  from  us?  " 

"  Motive  ?  His  motive  is  pretty  obvious  after  to 
day's  revelation.  He  is  in  love  with  Daphne,  and, 
being  so,  he  is  tormented  by  two  ideas — namely,  that 
she  still  retains  her  love  for  George,  and  that  George 
himself  may  yet  return  to  claim  her.  Therefore,  do 
you  think  he  wishes  her  to  know  where  George  is? 
Not  likely!  His  plan  is  to  woo  and  win  her  before 
George  reappears  to  spoil  his  game." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  The  tearing  of  that  paragraph 
was  an  accident." 

"  An  accident  ?  Did  you  not  notice  this  morning  how 
anxious  he  was  to  know  if  we  had  read  this  critique ; 
how  relieved  he  seemed  when  he  learned  we  had  not? 
Singular  that  he  should  light  his  cigar  with  a  bit  of 
newspaper,  pretending  he  could  see  no  matches  in  the 
room,  when  all  the  time  they  were  staring  at  him  from 

ill 


The  Weird  Picture 

the  mantel !  Singular,  too,  that  out  of  fifty  newspapers 
he  should  light  on  the  very  one  in  which  this  eulogy 
of  himself  is,  and  tear  the  very  column  containing  it, 
leaving,  however,  sufficient  to  show  what  a  great  man 
he  has  developed  into.  An  accident  ?  Bah !  My 
good  uncle,  give  me  credit  for  a  little  discernment." 

"  Or — a  picturesque  imagination.  Well,  well,  if  you 
think  the  paragraph  of  such  importance,  by  all  means 
send  to  England  for  a  copy  of  the  Standard  of  July  2nd. 
If  there  were  anything  of  consequence  in  it,  I  feel 
sure  that  some  friend  would  have  called  our  attention 
to  it  before  now." 

I  was  silent,  and  my  uncle  occupied  himself  in  read 
ing  the  article  again. 

"I  wonder,"  he  remarked,  "if  there  is  any  truth  in 
the  suggestion  that  some  one  else  painted  the  picture?" 

"  Can  George  paint?  "  I  asked :  an  unnecessary  ques 
tion  on  my  part,  for  my  uncle  knew  no  more  of  the 
matter  than  I. 

"  Never  knew  him  to  handle  the  brush  ;  though  it  is 
not  unlikely  he  may  have  studied  painting  a  little  in 
India,  but  scarcely  to  the  extent  of  being  able  to  pro 
duce  a  masterpiece  such  as  we  have  been  reading 
about." 

"  You  remember  the  date  Angelo  assigned  for  his 
arrival  at  Paris." 

"  I  do.    It  was  the  day  after  we  left." 

"  Exactly.  And  don't  you  think  it  strange  that  he 
should  arrive  there  the  very  day  after  we  had  taken  our 
departure  ?  " 

"  I  see  nothing  strange  in  it." 

"  And  then,  talking  of  his  arrival  at  Paris,  he  made 
use  of  the  plural  '  we.'  '  We  arrived,'  he  said,  and 
then,  suddenly  checking  himself,  he  altered  it  to  '  I  did 
not  arrive.'  Do  you  remember  it  ?  " 

112 


What  the  "Standard"  Said  of  the  Picture 

"  I  can't  say  I  do." 

"  But  I  do,  though,  and  wondered  at  it.  Now  who 
are  they  who  compose  the  '  we '  ?" 

"  He  and  his  agent,  probably ;  or  he  and  those  who 
were  conveying  the  picture." 

"If  he  meant  those  persons  only,  why  should  he 
check  himself  so  sharply  ?  " 

My  uncle  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  were  grow 
ing  tired  of  the  subject.  "  I  think,  Frank,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  are  attaching  too  much  importance  to  a 
trivial  expression." 

"  Possibly  I  may  be ;  but  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  a  mystery  surrounds  the  production  of  Angelo's 
picture,  and  that  the  mystery  is  in  some  way  connected 
with  George." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HIGH    MASS   AND   WHAT    HAPPENED  AT   IT 

THE  morning  dawned  more  soft  and  lovely  than 
the  preceding  one :  a  boon  to  the  good  people  of 
Rivoli,  for  it  was  a  gala-day  with  them. 

Daphne,  my  uncle  and  myself  rose  with  the  break  of 
day,  and  at  an  early  hour  we  were  standing  in  the 
market-place  watching  the  worshippers  throng  into 
the  cathedral. 

Be  it  far  from  me  to  attempt  to  describe  the  various 
ornaments  and  robes  displayed  by  the  dames  of  Rivoli 
on  this  festal  occasion :  the  silver  chains  and  rich  head 
dresses,  the  dainty  cloaks  and  embroidered  kirtles. 
Suffice  it  to  say  there  was  sufficient  white,  blue,  and 
black  among  them  to  gladden  the  heart  of  his  Holi 
ness  the  late  Pope,  who  has  expressed  his  approval 
of  these  colours  as  most  becoming  to  young  persons. 
Nor  were  sober  grey  and  brown  wanting,  hues  suit 
able,  according  to  the  same  authority,  to  ladies  of  a 
more  advanced  age. 

"To  be  or  not  to  be?  that  is  the  question,"  mur 
mured  my  uncle,  as  the  last  devotee  filed  into  the 
cathedral,  and  the  great  square  was  left  to  us. 
"  Whether  'tis  nobler  to  follow  the  crowd  into  this 
edifice  to  witness  a  ceremony  whose  superstition  pro 
vokes  my  irreverence,  or  to  stroll  onward  in  the  soft 
morning  air  and  finish  this  weed?  Havana  versus 
church,  that  is  the  question." 

"  No  question  at  all,"  said  Daphne ;  and,  compel- 

114 


High  Mass  and  What  Happened  at  It 

ling  her  pagan  parent  to  fling  away  his  cigar  and 
assume  a  more  decorous  air,  she  drew  him  within  the 
cathedral. 

As  we  came  as  spectators  only,  we  took  up  our 
position  in  a  side-cloister.  Looking  round  for  the 
artist  among  the  crowd  of  worshippers  I  at  length 
discovered  him  in  the  very  first  line  of  seats,  reading 
a  Missal,  with  such  attention  that  he  never  once 
glanced  to  left  or  right.  His  devout  air  and  the  posi 
tion  he  had  taken  so  near  the  chancel  evidently  implied 
an  intention  to  partake  of  the  Communion. 

On  the  high  altar  seven  lofty  candlesticks  of  solid 
silver,  each  with  its  seven  waxen  tapers,  gleamed  on 
the  great  brazen  gates  of  the  chancel,  and  on  the 
lofty  casement  above  with  its  blazoned  saints  and 
angels,  and  fretwork  of  purple  and  gold.  The  splen 
dour  was  sufficient  to  illumine  the  whole  length  of  the 
nave,  and,  contrasted  with  the  gloom  of  the  more  re 
mote  parts  of  the  edifice,  had  a  dazzling,  not  to  say 
theatrical,  effect. 

We  had  not  occupied  our  position  in  the  aisle  above 
two  minutes,  when  forth  from  the  sacristy  issued  the 
train  of  the  priests  and  their  auxiliaries.  Thurifers 
swinging  slow  their  golden  censers,  and  acolytes  with 
lighted  tapers,  led  the  way  to  the  chancel.  Father 
Ignatius,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  came  last, 
robed  in  a  magnificient  white  cope,  and  bearing  under  a 
veil  the  sacred  vessels,  which  he  deposited  on  the 
altar. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  remarked  Daphne  presently. 
"  Why  do  they  not  begin?  " 

This  question  found  an  echo  in  my  own  mind. 
Though  several  minutes  had  elapsed  since  Ignatius 
had  entered  the  sanctuary,  he  had  -not  yet  begun 
the  prefatory  rite  of  incensing  the  crucifix,  but  was 


The  Weird  Picture 

conversing  in  whispers  with  his  deacon,  and  their 
motions  and  glances,  which  were  directed  to 
wards  Angelo,  seemed  to  intimate  that  the  artist 
was  the  subject  of  their  talk.  It  was  with  considerable 
surprise  that  we  saw  the  deacon  leave  the  sanctuary 
and,  walking  over  to  the  spot  where  Angelo  sat,  still 
absorbed  in  his  Missal,  hold  a  brief  but  animated  con 
versation  with  him.  Presently  he  returned  to  the  side 
of  Father  Ignatius.  Whatever  the  object  of  this  in 
tercourse  may  have  been,  it  had  met  with  failure,  to 
judge  by  the  perplexed  looks  of  the  deacon. 

The  service  commenced.  The  organ,  touched  by  a 
master-hand,  rolled  with  grand  cadence  through  the 
cathedral,  now  swelling  high  and  loud  to  the  lofty 
arches  above,  now  dying  away  with  faint  echoes  in  far- 
off  aisles. 

From  the  chancel  issued  voices  so  mysteriously 
beautiful  as  to  suggest  the  idea  of  a  hidden  choir  of 
angels.  Daphne  was  deeply  interested,  and  even  my 
anti-ecclesiastical  uncle  condescended  to  remark  that 
it  was  a  "  well-organised  noise." 

As  for  me,  the  character  of  the  worship  was  such 
that  at  any  other  time  it  would  have  enthralled  my 
senses  and  filled  me  with  dreams  of  mediaevalism ;  but 
on  the  present  occasion  curiosity  to  know  the  nature  of 
the  communication  that  had  passed  between  Angelo 
and  the  deacon  overcame  every  other  feeling,  and  made 
me  inattentive  to  the  solemnity. 

The  tinkling  bell  of  the  acolyte  sounded,  and  the 
assembly  fell  on  their  knees  as  Father  Ignatius  elevated 
the  sacred  host  for  the  adoration  of  the  faithful.  The 
sun  by  this  time  had  mounted  high  above  the  roof 
tops  and  was  now  gilding  the  chancel-window  with  its 
splendour :  and  from  the  holy  dove  figured  at  the  apex 
of  this  casement,  arrowy  beams  of  mystic  and  many 

116 


High  Mass  and  What  Happened  at  It 

coloured  light  slanted  full  on  the  head  of  the  aged 
priest,  lighting  up  a  countenance  thin  and  ascetic,  yet 
bearing  in  every  lineament  the  lofty  spirit  and  iron 
will  of  a  Hildebrand. 

The  time  had  come  for  the  people  to  receive  the 
Mass.  Among  the  first  to  advance  and  kneel  reverently 
at  the  altar-rails  was  Angelo.  My  position  prevented 
me  from  seeing  his  face.  I  could  not  help  wondering 
whether  his  faith  was  sincere,  and  whether,  in  accord 
ance  with  the  spirit  of  the  holy  mystery,  he  was  in 
charity  with  all  mankind,  even  with  me,  his  rival. 

The  administration  of  the  sacrament  was  conducted 
by  Father  Ignatius  accompanied  by  the  deacon,  who 
held  the  paten  under  his  host  as  it  was  placed  on  the 
tongue  of  the  receiver.  The  worthy  padre  commenced 
at  the  Epistle  side  of  the  altar.  Angelo  was  the  ninth 
in  order  from  that  end.  We  noticed  with  surprise  that 
Ignatius,  while  giving  the  host  to  the  first  eight,  never 
once  looked  at  them,  but  kept  his  eyes  all  the  time  on 
Angelo  with  a  fixed  stony  expression  that  gave  no  in 
dication  of  his  thoughts. 

I  waited  with  painful  interest  for  the  priest  to  con 
front  Angelo,  absurdly  thinking  there  might  be  some 
secret  between  them,  and  that  in  addition  to  the  ritual 
words  Ignatius  might  whisper  others  not  of  sacred 
import.  I  was  certainly  not  prepared  for  the  result. 
As  Angelo  reverently  elevated  his  face  to  receive  the 
wafer  between  his  lips,  Ignatius,  affecting  not  to  notice 
the  action,  passed  him  by  for  the  next  communicant, 
and  proceeded  with  the  delivery. 

I  was  doubtful  at  first  whether  I  had  seen  aright, 
but  the  looks  interchanged  among  the  assembly  told  me 
that  others  too  had  observed  the  action.  My  wonder 
found  its  reflection  in  the  wide-open  eyes  of  Daphne ; 
her  arm  trembled  on  mine,  but  she  did  not  speak ;  for 

117 


The  Weird  Picture 

a  deep  silence  had  fallen  over  all,  and  the  faintest 
whisper  would  have  attracted  attention. 

What  could  be  the  reason  for  this  action  on  the 
part  of  the  priest?  What  could  Angelo  have  done  to 
forfeit  the  privileges  of  the  Church  ?  Quick  as  a  flash 
of  light  there  rose  before  me  the  confessional  scene  of 
the  preceding  day.  Was  the  rejection  of  Angelo  the 
result  of  the  recital  made  to  Father  Ignatius  by  the 
silver-haired  pentitent?  Of  the  nature  of  that  con 
fession  I  had  only  an  inkling,  but  that  it  was  the 
key  to  this  priest's  conduct  I  felt  certain. 

The  first  line  of  communicants  retired  to  their  seats. 
The  artist  did  not  move  but  remained  kneeling  solitary 
and  silent,  his  lips  pressing  the  cold  marble  chancel- 
rails,  his  hands  clasped  nervously  above  his  dark  hair, 
as  if  he  were  supplicating  the  Church,  his  mother, 
to  receive  and  forgive  an  erring  child. 

For  a  brief  moment  I  had  entertained  the  idea  that 
Ignatius,  in  passing  Angelo  by,  had  perhaps  committed 
an  oversight.  It  was  impossible  now  for  him  not  to 
perceive  the  artist;  but  with  a  face  cold  and  impene 
trable  as  marble  he  stood  erect  within  the  chancel,  open 
ly  ignoring  the  other's  mute  appeal  to  be  noticed.  It 
was  clear  that  his  refusal  to  give  the  Communion  to 
him  was  a  deliberate  act.  The  most  exquisite  penalty 
that  can  fall  on  the  soul  of  a  devout  Catholic  had 
fallen  on  Angelo.  A  rustle  of  surprise  passed  through 
the  assembly  like  the  ripple  of  the  forest-leaves  swayed 
by  the  summer  breeze. 

Despite  my  jealousy  I  could  not  help  pitying  the 
artist  at  having  to  suffer  this  slight  in  the  face  of  a 
great  mass  of  people.  He  had  crossed  the  sea  and 
travelled  hundreds  of  miles  expressly  (so  he  had  told 
us)  to  be  present  at  this  solemn  festa — a  festa  hallowed 
by  all  the  memories  of  his  childhood  and  youth ;  and 

118 


High  Mass  and  What  Happened  at  It 

the  end  of  it  all  was  to  become  an  excommunicate 
from  the  Church  he  loved,  an  object  of  suspicion 
to  the  people  among  whom  he  had  been  brought 
up. 

Several  minutes  had  elapsed  since  the  first  communi 
cants  had  retired ;  a  second  line  had  not  yet  come 
forward,  and  the  artist  continued  to  kneel  in  silent 
loneliness.  Still  he  moved  not,  as  if  dreading  to  lift  his 
head  and  face  the  wondering  eyes  of  the  faithful. 

Father  Ignatius  was  in  a  dilemma.  Knowing — as  I 
supposed — his  old  protege's  passionate  nature,  he 
feared  that  a  command  for  the  artist  to  retire  might 
provoke  an  outburst  of  rage  that  would  profane  the 
sacred  solemnity.  He  hesitated  to  speak,  and  so  this 
singular  tableau  continued  some  moments  longer,  and 
people  looked  at  each  other,  wondering  how  it  was  go 
ing  to  end. 

Suddenly  the  deep  hush  and  awe  that  lay  on  all  was 
broken.  Sweetly,  solemnly,  from  some  hidden  portion 
of  the  chancel,  in  tones  as  clear  as  a  silver  bell,  the  voice 
of  a  woman  arose.  She  was  singing  a  sacred  solo ;  and 
the  words  directed  none  to  draw  near  the  altar  but  those 
whose  consciences  were  pure,  whose  lives  were  holy. 
The  effect  of  this  music  was  thrilling  in  the  extreme. 
Whether  applicable  or  not  to  the  would-be  communi 
cant,  certain  it  was  that  his  whole  figure  quivered  like 
an  aspen,  and  his  head  sank  still  lower  on  the  chancel- 
rails.  The  solo  did  not  form  part  of  Mozart's  Mass, 
and  I  could  not  help  thinking  afterwards  that  Father 
Ignatius  had  previously  directed  that  the  words  should 
be  sung  in  the  event  of  the  artist's  presenting  himself  at 
the  altar. 

Still  Angelo  did  not  stir ;  and  the  deacon  glanced  at 
Father  Ignatius,  as  if  apprehensive  of  a  disturbance. 
That  ecclesiastic  staved  off  the  difficulty  for  a  time  by 

119 


The  Weird  Picture 

motioning  the  attendants  to  bring  forward  a  second  line 
of  communicants,  who,  advancing  to  the  chancel,  knelt 
some  on  one  side  of  Angelo,  some  on  the  other. 

Would  the  priest  ignore  the  artist  a  second  time? 
was  the  thought  that  filled  every  mind  in  the  cathedral. 
Interest  gleamed  from  every  face.  The  sanctuary 
had  assumed  for  the  time  being  the  aspect  of  a  stage, 
and  with  bated  breath  the  assembly  awaited  the  result, 
as  an  audience  awaits  the  denouement  of  a  play.  The 
only  person  who  showed  no  trace  of  feeling  was 
Ignatius  himself.  With  solemn  air  he  proceeded  to 
the  delivery  of  the  Sacrament.  Once  more  he  ap 
proached  the  artist,  who  elevated  his  face  to  receive  the 
host,  and  once  more  did  Ignatius  pass  him  by. 

At  this  second  refusal  Angelo  bounded  to  his  feet 
with  a  suddenness  that  startled  every  one  except 
Ignatius,  who,  calm  and  dignified,  drew  back  a  few 
paces,  covering  with  the  linen  corporal  the  paten  con 
taining  the  wafers  as  if  to  guard  them  from  seizure 
and  profanation. 

With  eyes  of  fire  and  lip  of  scorn  Angelo  glared 
round  on  the  assembly,  as  if  in  disdain  of  any  opinion 
they  might  have  formed  of  him,  his  face  proud,  dark, 
and  defiant.  The  cathedral  attendants,  observing  his 
wild  bearing,  were  stepping  forward  to  remove  him,  but 
a  signal  from  Father  Ignatius  checked  their  advance. 

"  Peace !  "  he  exclaimed  with  lifted  hand,  and  at  his 
word  the  rising  murmur  of  many  voices  was  hushed. 
"  Peace !  Let  there  be  no  tumult,  I  pray  you,  my  chil 
dren.  My  conduct  may  seem  harsh,  but  the  occa 
sion  warrants  it.  My  son,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
the  artist,  "  you  have  forced  this  humiliation  on  your 
self.  Warned  yestereven  by  me  that  you  had  forfeited 
the  privileges  of  the  Church,  you  have  yet  dared  to 
disobey  her  voice,  and  to  approach  her  hallowed  altar. 

120 


High  Mass  and  What  Happened  at  It 

Leave  this  holy  place,  I  pray  you  in  quietude;  or  if 
force  be  employed  in  your  removal,  on  your  head  be 
the  guilt  of  profanation !  " 

A  wave  of  emotion  swept  over  Angelo,  but  with 
an  effort  he  subdued  it,  and  faced  the  priest. 

"  One  question,  and  I  retire.  For  what  reason  do 
you  thus  refuse  me  the  Mass  ?  " 

"  The  reverence  due  to  the  holy  mysteries  forbids  you 
to  participate  in  them.  Now  go.  Would  that  my 
words  might  be:  Vade  in  pace!"  The  voice  of  a 
judge  giving  sentence  of  death  could  not  have  been 
more  impressive  than  those  solemn  tones  issuing  from 
the  depths  of  the  chancel.  "  Will  you  compel  me  to 
speak  out? "  he  added,  as  the  artist  showed  no  sign  of 
moving.  "  Let  your  own  conscience  vindicate  me." 

"  My  conscience  acquits  me  of  any  action  that  can 
justify  you  in  excluding  me  from  the  Communion." 

"  The  saints  pardon  thee  that  falsehood,  my  son ! " 

"  Falsehood !  "  repeated  the  artist,  stepping  up  to 
the  chancel  rails  with  clenched  hands,  and  with  so  dark 
an  expression  on  his  face  that  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  attack  Ignatius.  "  If  it  were  not  for  your  age  and 
holy  office,  you  would  not  dare  use  such  words  to  me. 
But  the  priest  is  protected  by  his  alb  and  chasuble,  as  a 
woman  by  her  sex.  You  have  publicly  affronted  me. 
I  demand  an  explanation,  nor  will  I  retire  till  you  give 
it." 

"  This  is  not  the  time  or  place.  At  the  confessional 
will  I  hear  thee — nay,  absolve  thee ;  but  come  not  as 
thou  art  to  the  holy  altar." 

"  I  tell  you," — Angelo  began  angrily,  but  Ignatius 
would  not  hear  him. 

"  Too  long  have  we  listened  to  thee !  "  he  exclaimed 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  Attendants,  remove 


121 


The  Weird  Picture 

this  brawler,  ere  from  the  high  altar  we  curse  him  with 
bell,  book,  and  candle !  " 

"  Touch  me  at  your  peril !  "  cried  Angelo  fiercely. 
"  Who  dare  accuse  me  of " 

His  eyes,  glaring  defiantly  round  at  one  and  all,  sud 
denly  lighted  upon  us.  There  in  that  hour  of  his 
humiliation  he  beheld  a  sight  calculated  to  call  up 
all  the  bitterness  of  his  nature;  the  woman  whom  he 
loved  reclining  in  the  arms  of  the  man  whom  he  hated ! 
Daphne,  with  a  frightened  air,  was  clinging  half  faint 
ing  to  me. 

He  cast  a  look  at  her  as  if  appealing  for  sympathy, 
but  in  the  expression  of  her  face,  and  in  the  quickly 
averted  motion  of  her  head,  he  read  the  loss  of  all  his 
hopes. 

I  was  but  human — it  was  ignoble  of  me,  I  know — 
but  I  could  not  repress  the  exultant  thought  that  this 
was  a  splendid  triumph  for  me ! 

A  similar  thought  was  evidently  passing  through  the 
mind  of  the  artist.  Despair  caused  him  to  stand 
immovable,  staring  in  Daphne's  direction,  regard 
less  of  the  people's  murmurs  that  rose  on  the  air  like 
the  sound  of  many  waters — regardless  of  the  advice 
of  the  attendants  to  withdraw  quietly.  Like  a 
statue  he  stood,  deaf  to  their  appeals,  till  at  length, 
losing  their  patience,  the  attendants,  aided  by  some  of 
of  the  worshippers,  laid  hands  on  him  to  enforce  his 
removal.  Their  grasp  seemed  to  rouse  all  the  latent 
fury  of  his  nature. 

"  Touch  me  at  your  peril !  "  he  cried,  struggling  to 
free  himself  from  their  grasp  and  actually  striking  out 
among  them  with  clenched  hands.  "  Who  dare  ac 
cuse  me  of  guilt?  I  have  not  deserved  this,"  he  contin 
ued,  panting  and  breathless,  as  he  was  dragged  with 
more  force  than  ceremony  from  the  chancel.  "  Let 

122 


High  Mass  and  What  Happened  at  It 

me  go.  Release  my  wrists.  I  am  going  quietly,  I  tell 
you.  Will  you  not  take  my  word?  Cowards!  Oh,  if 
my  hands  were  but  free!  I  ...  let  me  go  ...  I  tell 
you  ...  let  me " 

The  oaken  door  of  the  sacristy  removed  the  strug 
gling  group  from  our  view ;  and  the  scene  that  for  the 
space  of  a  few  minutes  had  degraded  a  holy  solem 
nity  to  the  level  of  a  stage-representation  was  at  an 
end. 

"  Why,  the  boy  must  be  mad !  "  cried  my  uncle,  as 
Angelo's  cries  became  lost  in  the  distance. 

Daphne  lay  a  dead  weight  in  my  arms. 

"  She  has  fainted,"  I  whispered  to  her  father ;  and 
I  bore  her  far  away  from  the  worshippers  to  the 
entrance  of  the  cathedral  for  the  cool  morning  air  to 
revive  her. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  my  thoughts  as  I  held  her 
close  to  me.  Once  before,  on  the  very  morn  of  her 
intended  wedding,  she  had  been  snatched  away ;  and 
now  on  a  second  occasion,  when  another  rival  seemed 
on  the  point  of  winning  her,  and  of  triumphing  over 
me,  events  had  conspired  to  destroy  all  his  hopes.  Was 
there  not  a  fatality  in  this  ?  Was  not  Destiny  reserving 
Daphne  for  me  alone  ? 

"  No  one  shall  ever  have  you  but  myself,"  I  mur 
mured,  as  I  gazed  on  her  beautiful  face. 

An  old  woman  had  been  slowly  following  us.  She 
now  offered  us  her  assistance. 

"  Let  me  see  to  her,"  she  said,  as  I  laid  her  at  the 
pedestal  of  a  font  near  the  porch,  and,  kneeling,  sus 
tained  her  head  on  my  knee.  "  Poor  pretty  lady,  she 
will  soon  come  to." 

And  she  proceeded  to  remove  Daphne's  hat,  and  to 
loosen  her  cloak  and  dress. 


123 


The  Weird  Picture 

We  waited  a  few  moments,  but  she  lay  as  still  and 
white  as  the  alabaster  font  above  her. 

"Is  there  no  water  to  be  had?"  said  my  uncle, 
lifting  the  lid  of  the  baptismal  basin  and  peeping  in. 
"  None  here.  Ah  !  the  holy  water  at  the  porch  !  Good  !" 

"  The  saints  forbid !  "  exclaimed  the  old  dame  fer 
vently.  "  It  would  be  sacrilege." 

"  The  holy  water  couldn't  be  put  to  a  better  use," 
I  said,  as  my  uncle  darted  to  look  for  some  receptacle 
to  convey  the  water  in. 

"  Is  not  this  lady's  name  Daphne  Leslie  ?  "  inquired 
the  old  dame,  chafing  the  hands  of  her  patient. 

"  Yes ;  how  did  you  learn  it  ?  "  I  asked  in  amaze 
ment. 

"  I  have  heard  it  often  enough,"  she  smiled,  "  on  the 
lips  of  my  boy  Angelo.  You  know  him  well.  I  am  his 
old  nurse.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  him  speak  of  me." 

"  I  believe  I  have,"  I  replied. 

"  Ah  me !  this  lady  has  turned  my  poor  boy's  brain. 
He  is  mad — quite  mad — with  love  for  her.  No  sleep 
had  he  last  night.  All  through  the  long,  hours  he  was 
walking  his  room  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  re 
peating  her  name.  Ah,  why  did  Father  Ignatius  frown 
so  on  him  ?  I  want  to  tell  her  that  he  is  a  good  youth 
and  can  have  done  nothing  wrong.  The  Father  is  a 
hard  man,  and  the  lightest  trifle  displeases  him.  I  saw 
this  lady  faint  at  my  poor  boy's  disgrace,  and  I  want 
to  tell  her  that  it  is  all  well  with  him.  Jesu,  Maria !  " 
she  ejaculated  suddenly,  looking  with  loving  adoration 
on  Daphne's  face  "  how  beautiful  she  is !  A  worthy 
match  for  my  handsome  boy." 

So  this,  then,  was  her  motive  in  attending  Daphne ! 
To  pour  into  her  ear  the  praises  of  Angelo,  and  to  as 
sure  her  of  the  goodness  of  his  character ! 


124 


High  Mass  and  What  Happened  at  It 

"  Your  '  boy,'  as  you  call  him,  shall  never  have 
Daphne,"  I  exclaimed  savagely — "  never !  " 

And  in  an  ecstasy  of  rage  and  love  I  kissed  her 
passionately,  and  at  the  very  moment  my  lips  met  hers 
her  dark  blue  eyes  opened  wide  and  looked  full  into 
mine.  Was  it  the  reflection  of  my  own  eyes  that  I 
beheld  in  hers  or  did  they  really  shine  with  a  tender 
light?  Did  her  fingers  really  return  my  pressure,  or 
was  it  but  the  effect  of  my  imagination?  I  could  not 
tell.  She  had  returned  to  her  unconscious  state  again. 
The  old  woman  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  was  regard 
ing  me  with  a  superb  contempt  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  the  prince  of  darkness. 

"  So  you,  then,  are  the  rival  of  whom  my  boy  speaks 
in  his  dreams — you !  "  she  exclaimed  with  a  gesture  of 
disdain.  "  And  do  you  hope  to  win  this  lady  from  him 
— you?  It  will  not  be  by  the  beauty  of  your  face, 
then.  Compared  with  you,  my  boy  is  an  angel." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  services,"  I  replied  coldly, 
"  but  I  can  dispense  with  them,  and  with  your  compli 
ments  too.  I  wish  you  good-day,  madame." 

And,  seeing  that  my  uncle  could  not  find  a  vessel  in 
which  to  convey  the  water,  I  lifted  Daphne  and  carried 
her  over  to  him.  The  old  dame  remained  standing  on 
the  spot  where  I  had  left  her,  and,  after  contemplating 
me  for  a  few  seconds,  walked  off  with  a  stately  air. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  offend  our  good  bonne?" 
asked  my  uncle,  as  he  sprinkled  Daphne's  face  and 
throat  with  water. 

"  Who  do  you  think  she  is  ?  " 

"  Florence  Nightingale?  " 

"  Angelo's  nurse.  She  was  instituting  comparisons 
between  your  humble  servant  and  her  oil-and-colour 
protege;  so  I  dismissed  her." 


125 


The  Weird  Picture 

Very  slowly  Daphne  recovered  from  her  swoon, 
smiling  faintly  at  her  weakness,  and  very  tenderly  did 
I  lead  her  to  a  seat. 

As  soon  as  she  was  quite  recovered  my  uncle  left 
us  to  ascertain  what  had  been  done  with  Angelo. 

"  I  feel  quite  frightened,  Frank,"  said  Daphne,  trem 
bling  all  over,  "  at  what  has  just  happened.  Why  did 
the  priest  refuse  Angelo  the  Sacrament  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  mystery  I  too  would  like  to  solve." 

"  The  priest  must  have  had  some  reason  for  his 
action,"  she  rejoined.  "  How  awful  Angelo  looked 
when  he  jumped  to  his  feet  and  glared  round  on  the 
people !  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  leave  me  alone 
with  him,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  confidingly  on 
my  arm.  "  I  feel  afraid  of  him  now ;  I  did  not  think 
he  could  be  so  wild  and  passionate." 

I  gave  her  the  required  promise,  knowing  that  the 
reason  she  exacted  it  was  her  dread  lest  the  artist 
should  use  such  opportunity  for  declaring  his  love  to 
her. 

She  drew,  perhaps  unconsciously,  nearer  to  me,  and 
her  arm  within  mine  tightened  its  clasp.  At  the  same 
time  a  rose  she  was  wearing  in  her  hat  (a  flower  from 
the  bouquet  Angelo  had  given  her  the  previous  day) 
fell  from  its  stalk.  Daphne  affected  not  to  notice  its 
fall,  and  it  lay  neglected,  its  petals  scattered  and 
withered  as  the  hopes  of  the  donor. 

"  Well,  what  have  they  done  with  Angelo  ?  "  said 
I  to  my  uncle,  as  that  worthy  returned  to  us. 

"  His  paroxysm  of  fury  passed  off  after  a  few  min 
utes,  so  they  let  him  go." 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  whispered,  to  my  uncle  as  we 
journeyed  homewards,  "  that  Angelo's  Madonna  had 


126 


High  Mass  and  What  Happened  at  It 

anything  to  do  with  his  expulsion   from   the   Com 
munion  ?  " 

"  I  am  pretty  sure  that  it  had  not,"  was  the  reply. 
"  Angelo's  was  a  much  more  grave  offence." 


127 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  ARTIST   FAILS  TO  SECURE  A   MODEL 

ON  our  return  from  the  cathedral  I  spent  the  early 
portion  of  the  morning  in  writing  letters  to  some 
college  friends  at  Heidelberg,  not  forgetting  at 
the  same  time  to  send  to  my  uncle's  butler  telling  him 
to  procure  another  copy  of  the  Standard  of  the  date 
July  2nd,  and  to  forward  it  to  Rivoh. 

My  uncle,  occupying  himself  with  the  files  of  the 
newspaper  in  question,  was  deep  in  the  mazes  of  poli 
tics,  and  favoured  Daphne  now  and  then  with  extracts 
from  the  oratory  of  statesmen  out  of  office,  to  the  effect 
that  the  country  was  on  the  eve  of  ruin,  and  that 
nothing  but  a  speedy  return  of  the  Opposition  to  power 
would  ever  set  matters  right — statements  which  my 
uncle,  who  favoured  the  Opposition,  regarded  as  pro 
foundly  true. 

Daphne  yawned  at  the  impending  fall  of  her  country 
without  seeming  to  be  much  impressed  thereby ;  and 
finally,  putting  on  her  hat,  she  exclaimed  it  was  a  beau 
tiful  morning  for  a  stroll,  and  sauntered  leisurely  out, 
expressing  a  wish  that  I  would  follow  her  as  soon  as 
my  letters  were  finished. 

This  I  did,  and  walked  down  the  mountain  path 
in  quest  of  her.  Not  having  seen  her  by  the  time  I  had 
reached  the  haunted  well,  and  not  knowing  in  what 
direction  to  look  for  her,  I  flung  myself  down  on  a 
grassy  bank  behind  the  fountain,  beneath  the  shadows 
of  the  overhanging  foliage,  determined  to  devote  five 
minutes  to  a  cigar  before  proceeding  further. 

128 


The  'Artist  Fails  to  Secure  a  Model 

The  day  was  sunny,  the  breeze  soft  and  warm,  the 
waters  of  the  fountain  rippled  pleasantly,  and  the 
shadows  danced  to  and  fro  on  the  greensward.  Repose 
in  the  shade  was  much  more  agreeable  than  walking 
in  the  sunlight,  and  I  found  my  five  minutes  extending 
to  ten,  and,  while  dreamily  thinking  that  it  was  time  to 
resume  my  quest,  I  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

How  long  I  continued  in  a  state  of  repose  I  cannot 
tell.  I  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  voices;  and, 
glancing  out  from  my  covert,  I  saw  Daphne  and 
Angelo  standing  beside  the  fountain.  The  artist  was 
labouring  under  some  deep  emotion :  his  dark  hair 
hung  negligently  over  his  brow  and  eyes;  his  attire 
was  in  a  frayed  and  disarranged  state;  for  disorder 
and  melancholy  he  looked  a  very  Hamlet. 

Evidently  neither  he  nor  Daphne  was  aware  of  my 
proximity.  I  hesitated  to  play  the  spy,  but  by  doing 
so  I  might  obtain  a  clue  to  Angelo's  expulsion  from 
the  Communion — a  clue  that  probably  could  be  obtained 
in  no  other  way,  since  his  affection  for  Daphne  might 
induce  him  to  impart  to  her  what  he  would  withhold 
from  my  uncle  and  myself.  This  thought  acted  as  a 
salve  to  my  conscience,  and,  drawing  my  head  within 
the  foliage,  I  resolved  to  remain  a  silent  and  hidden 
spectator  of  the  interview,  in  direct  contravention  of 
my  promise  to  Daphne  not  to  leave  her  alone  with 
the  artist.  It  was  not  a  very  honourable  position  I 
candidly  admit.  But  I  paid  the  penalty  for  it,  by  over 
hearing  that  which  made  me  most  miserable. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Miss  Leslie,"  the  artist  was  saying — 
and  his  voice  sounded  so  strange  and  hoarse  that  I 
scarcely  recognised  it  to  be  his — "  that  the  incident 
that  happened  this  morning  in  the  cathedral  has 
tended  to  prejudice  me  in  your  esteem." 

Daphne's  silence  seemed  to  imply  assent  to  this. 

129 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  If  it  be  this  that  causes  you  to  look  on  me  with 
a  different  face,  it  admits  of  an  easy  explanation. 
Father  Ignatius  recognised  in  you  the  original  of  my 
Madonna.  He  considers  me  guilty  of  sacrilege.  My 
refusal  to  atone  for  it  at  the  confessional  excludes 
me  from  the  communion  of  the  Church.  You  know 
what  these  priests  are,  Miss  Leslie,"  he  continued  with 
a  sneer.  "  Meat  in  Lent,  absence  from  confessional, 
a  thousand  similar  trifles,  are  deadly  sins  in  their  eyes." 

Daphne  still  maintained  silence.  He  took  from  his 
bosom  a  crucifix  and  kissed  it. 

"  On  this  crucifix,  image  of  our  God  in  agony, 
holiest  symbol  of  the  Catholic  faith,  I  swear  by  my  hope 
of  salvation  that  I  speak  truth  when  I  say  that  my  ex 
clusion  from  the  Mass  rests  on  no  other  ground  than 
the  one  I  have  stated." 

I  did  not  believe  him ;  and  if  he  had  repeated  his 
statement  twenty  times,  and  sworn  it  on  his  crucifix 
twenty  times,  I  would  not  have  believed  him.  A  subtle 
stroke  on  his  part,  this :  to  represent  to  Daphne  that 
his  tribute  to  her  beauty  had  cost  him  nothing  less  than 
— '  the  communion  of  the  saints ! '  It  might  move  her 
to  pity,  and  we  all  know  to  what  pity  is  akin. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Daphne,  "  that  I  am  the  cause — 
the  innocent  cause,"  with  a  stress  on  the  adjective, 
"  of  your  suffering  the  Church's  censure." 

And  then  came  a  long  pause,  during  which  both 
stood  looking  at  each  other :  he  with  undisguised  love 
and  admiration,  she  with  evident  distrust  and  fear. 
Each  seemed  afraid  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Miss  Leslie,"  he  continued,  speaking  slowly,  as  if 
it  were  difficult  to  find  words,  and  his  breathing 
came  thick  and  heavy,  "  you  can  guess  why  in  painting 
that  picture  I  was  enabled,  in  the  absence  of  the  orig 
inal,  to  reproduce  your  features  with  such  fidelity  ?  " 

130 


The  Artist  Fails  to  Secure  a  Model 

"  I  cannot  tell." 

This  was  a  falsehood  on  her  part — a  pardonable  one, 
perhaps.  She  knew  the  reason  as  well  as  he  did,  and 
dreaded  what  was  coming.  At  last,  after  another  long 
pause,  came  the  momentous  declaration : 

"  It  was  love  that  aided  my  memory." 

With  his  hands  tremulously  clasped,  he  bent  forward, 
his  dark  eyes  fixed  on  Daphne's  face.  Hers  were  bent 
on  the  ground.  I  had  never  seen  her  looking  more 
beautiful. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Angelo,  speaking  with  more  ease 
now,  as  if  his  avowal  of  love  had  removed  the  restraint 
from  his  speech,  "  it  was  love  that  aided  my  memory. 
It  was  love,  if  classic  story  speak  truth,  that  drew  the 
first  portrait." 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  even  in  his  love- 
making  he  could  not  wholly  avoid  reverting  to  his 
adored  art. 

"  Yes,"  he  continued,  "  it  was  love  that  inspired 
the  production  of  my  Madonna.  Madonna !  "  he  ex 
claimed  in  scornful  tones,  as  if  in  contempt  of  his  re 
ligion.  "  I  know  of  no  Madonna  save  you — your  wor 
ship  excludes  all  other.  The  saints  are  forgotten  when 
I  gaze  on  your  face.  You  alone  are  my  divinity.  Visit 
my  studio,  and  see  how  many  pictures  there  are  of  that 
face  which  troubles  me  by  day  and  haunts  my  dreams 
by  night.  Look  in  my  desk,  and  see  how  many  letters 
there  are  addressed  to  Miss  Leslie — written,  but  never 
sent.  Miss  Leslie,  you  must  know  how  much  I  love 
you !  O,  do  not  say  that  you  do  not  return  the  feel 
ing!" 

His  cloak  dropped  back  from  his  shoulders  as  he 
extended  his  arms  in  a  pleading  manner  toward  my 
cousin,  his  bronzed,  handsome  face  glowing  as  I  have 
seen  the  face  of  a  Greek  statue  glow  in  the  quivering 


The  Weird  Picture 

sunset.  He  was  not  ignorant  of  his  own  personal 
charms,  and  his  present  attitude,  acquired  perhaps  in 
the  atelier  of  the  artist,  was  purposely  adapted  to  dis 
play  the  statuesque  grace  of  his  figure. 

Daphne  did  not  speak  a  word.  I  knew  what  her 
answer  would  be,  and  I  knew  that  her  reticence  arose 
from  her. dread  of  the  effect  which  that  answer  might 
have  on  the  passionate  nature  of  the  artist.  She  had 
seen  something  of  his  nature  that  morning  in  the  cathe 
dral,  and  divined  but  too  well  that  his  love  was  of  the 
character  that  turns  by  a  leap  to  hatred. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  repeated — "  how  deeply  no  words  of 
mine  can  tell!  The  months  that  have  separated  us 
have  been  to  me  a  torture.  I  cannot  rest  apart  from 
you.  I  have  come  from  England  expressly  to  see  you. 
I  am  here  now  to  ask  you  to  be  mine.  I  had  intended 
to  stay  long  with,  or  near  you,  and  seek  to  win  my 
way  gradually  into  your  heart,  but  I  can  be  silent 
no  longer.  Who  can  forge  chains  for  love,  and  say, 
'  To-day  thou  shalt  be  dumb ;  to-morrow  thou  .shalt 
speak  ?  '  Forgive  me  if  my  language  seems  wild.  We 
Italians  do  not  love  so  coldly  as  your  English  youth ; 
we  are  all  passion  and  flame.  If  I  am  precipitate,  if 
I  am  rash,  if  I  am  mad,  blame  not  me,  but  blame 
the  beauty  that  has  made  me  so." 

He  checked  the  flow  of  his  words;  they  seem  poor 
and  commonplace  enough  on  paper.  It  must  have  been 
the  tone  in  which  they  were  uttered,  and  the  aid  they 
received  from  his  sparkling  eyes  and  dramatic  gestures, 
that  made  them  sound  like  eloquence  at  the  time. 

Daphne,  her  drooping  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  stood 
beside  the  tree  overhanging  the  fountain,  still  and  silent 
as  a  statue.  To  say  "  No  "  to  any  request,  however 
trifling,  was  always  a  source  of  pain  to  her ;  how  much 


132 


The  Artist  Fails  to  Secure  a  Model 

more  now  when  it  would  give  despair  to  the  one  it 
was  addressed  to ! 

"  Ah,  Heaven !  how  beautiful  you  are !  What  a 
picture  you  would  make !  "  One  might  have  thought 
from  the  manner  in  which  he  dwelt  on  the  word  "  pic 
ture  "  that  he  wanted  her  for  no  other  purpose  than 
to  minister  to  his  art.  "  Will  you  not  speak,  Daphne  ?  " 

She  sought  refuge  in  evasion. 

"  Give  me  time — a  day — to  reflect.  I  will  reply  to 
you  by — by  letter." 

"  No,  no — a  thousand  times,  no !  Not  for  worlds 
will  I  endure  another  such  night  as  last  in  an  agony 
of  suspense  and  doubt.  Let  me  have  your  answer  here 
and  now.  This  avowal  cannot  be  a  surprise  to  you. 
What  woman  was  ever  loved  without  knowing  it  ?  Did 
you  not  understand  my  action  yesterday  when  I  knelt 
before  your  picture  ?  Could  you  not  interpret  the  look 
in  my  eyes  the  first  time  they  saw  your  face?  That 
day  marked  an  era  in  my  art.  For  years  I  had  been 
seeking  to  paint  a  face  that  should  be  the  very  ideal 
of  beauty,  and  my  hand  had  failed  to  delineate  the 
shadowy  conceptions  of  my  mind ;  but  at  last  the  ideal 
face  shone  upon  me.  My  dream  of  beauty  was  realised 
in  a  living  form.  With  that  bright  form  by  my  side  to 
inspire  my  pencil " 

The  artist  paused,  stopped  by  the  expression  on 
Daphne's  face.  Surely  in  the  presence  of  the  bird  the 
net  is  spread  in  vain  ?  Angelo's  desire  for  Daphne  was 
prompted  quite  as  much  by  art  as  by  love.  She 
would  be  a  priceless  acquisition  to  his  studio,  would 
serve  as  a  beautiful  model  for  his  princesses,  his 
nymphs,  and  his  angels.  So  absorbed  was  he  in  his 
passion  for  art  that  he  could  see  nothing  objectionable 
or  ludicrous  in  his  avowal.  Do  all  artists  make  love 


133 


The  Weird  Picture 

in  this  fashion,  I  wonder?  The  thought  of  my  own 
beautiful  Daphne  posing  in  various  attitudes,  and  in 
various  stages  of  dressing,  before  this  demon  of  an 
artist,  in  order  that  he  might  produce  some  exquisite 
masterpiece  for  the  delectation  of  a  gaping  public,  so 
set  my  nerves  a-quivering  that  I  all  but  rushed 
from  my  hiding-place  for  the  purpose  of  hurling 
him  into  the  fountain.  Great  was  my  joy  to  hear 
Daphne's  reply,  given  in  a  voice  that  was  tinged  slightly 
with  sarcasm : 

"  Mr.  Vasari,"  and  she  inclined  her  dainty  head,  "  I 
thank  your  for  the  honour  you  do  me  in  selecting  me 

as  your  model 

"  Ah,  you  are  cruel,"  the  artist  stammered.  "  It 
is  not  for  art  alone  I  love  you." 

"  But,  believe  me,  it  can  never  be  as  you  wish." 
"  Ah,  why,  Daphne  ?    Say  not  that  you  hate  me." 
"  You  forget  that  I  am  to  be  Captain  Willard's  wife." 
Angelo  started.     So  did  I,  for  these  words  were  a 
complete  revelation  to  me.    I  had  thought  that  she  had 
all  but  forgotten  George,  and  that  I  was  gradually 
replacing  his  image.     Her  utterance  completely  dis 
pelled  this  illusion. 

With  a  strange  heaviness  of  heart  that  increased 
each  moment,  I  continued  to  listen  to  the  dialogue. 
Angelo's  pleading  expression  had  changed  to  one  of 
surprise  and  contempt. 

"  Captain  Willard  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Surely  you 
do  not  think  of  him  now — he  who  deserted  you  on 
your  bridal  morning!  He  is  not  worthy  of  you." 

"  Deserted  me  ?  "  repeated  Daphne.  "  Yes — but  not 
forever,  I  feel  sure.  He  has  left  me  only  for  a  time. 
Whatever  the  crime  was  in  which  he  became  involved 
— for  crime  I  suppose  it  must  have  been — I  am  certain 
that  it  was  none  of  his  causing.  If  there  be  any  truth 

134 


The  Artist  Fails  to  Secure  a  Model 

in  my  dreams  he  will  yet  return  to  explain  the  mystery 
of  his  absence,  to  vindicate  his  character,  and  to  take 
me  for  his  wife." 

She  spoke  with  such  a  look  shining  from  her  eyes, 
with  so  proud  a  trust  in  the  faith  of  her  absent  hero, 
in  such  a  tone  of  conviction,  that  I  (thinking  only  of 
my  own  faint — very  faint — prospect  of  winning  her) 
trembled,  lest  her  words  should  be  the  heralds  of  a 
stern  reality.  Some  dark  shadows  dancing  suddenly 
across  the  greensward  between  her  and  Angelo,  ac 
companied  by  a  rustling  sound  as  of  a  footstep,  gave 
me  a  start  as  great  as  if  the  ghost  of  George  had  sud 
denly  risen  up  before  me. 

"  Your  faith  is  womanly,  sublime,  but — misplaced. 
He  will  never  return.  He  has  left  you  forever.  Think 
no  more  of  him.  There  is  one  who  loves  you  a  thou 
sand  times  more  deeply  than  Captain  Willard  ever  did  ; 
compared  with  mine,  his  love  was  but  as  ice.  Ah, 
Daphne !  say  that  you  will  be  mine.  I  will  gladly  wait 
years  for  you,  content  to  hold  a  second  place  in  your 
affections,  if  in  the  event  of  Captain  Willard's  non 
return  you  will  offer  me  a  little  hope." 

"  Mr.  Vasari,  it  cannot  be,  even  if  George  were 
never  to  return.  Be  he  living  or  dead,  I  will  remain 
faithful  to  his  memory." 

My  mental  gloom  increased  as  I  listened  to  these 
firmly  spoken  words.  Daphne  little  thought  she  was 
wounding  two  hearts  by  her  remarks. 

"  Daphne,  I  would  not  hurt  your  feelings,  but  have 
you  never  considered  that  Captain  Willard  may  have 
left  you  for  another  ?  If  I  could  show  you  that  this  is 
the  case,  would  you  still  remain  faithful  to  his  mem 
ory  ?  Will  you  not  rather  show  your  scorn  of  him  by 
listening  to  another  lover — me  ?  " 

There  was   little   in   Angelo's   remarks  to   suggest 

135 


The  Weird  Picture 

the  reminiscence,  and  yet  by  some  inexplicable  mental 
process  I  found  my  mind  reverting  to  the  episode  of 
the  veiled  lady.  Daphne's  cheek  grew  white  and  her 
lip  quivered  at  the  idea  suggested  by  the  Italian,  but 
she  replied  proudly : 

"  I  will  never  believe  that  he  was  faithless." 

"  If  I  could  prove  that  he  left  you  for  another — " 
began  the  artist. 

It  was  now  Daphne's  turn  to  become  the  suppliant. 

"  Oh,  why  do  you  say  this  ?  You  talk  as  if  you 
knew  something  of  him.  If  you  have  any  knowledge 
of  him,  tell  me,  for  pity's  sake !  Do  you  know  where 
he  is?" 

"  First,  my  question  requires  an  answer.  If  I  could 
prove  that  he  left  you  for  another,  what  would  be 
your  answer  to  me  then?  " 

In  the  interval  that  elapsed  between  the  question 
and  the  reply  I  could  have  counted  sixty.  The  deep 
silence  was  broken  only  by  the  ripple  of  the  fountain. 
I  almost  thought  I  could  hear  her  heart  beating  against 
her  breast.  But  the  question  must  be  answered,  and 
drawing  her  dress  around  her  with  a  grace  which 
charmed  while  it  maddened  the  artist,  and  raising  her 
head  with  the  proud  dignity  of  a  queen,  she  replied  : 

"  Since  you  force  me  to  speak  out,  and  are  deter 
mined  to  have  an  answer  from  me,  listen  to  it.  I 
do  not  love  you,  and — forgive  me  if  my  words  seem 
harsh ;  better  a  cold  truth  than  a  sweet  falsehood — 
it  is  better  that  you  should  know  now,  once  and  for  all, 
I  could  never  love  you — never,  never,  NEVER  !  " 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  the  meaning  of  those 
cold,  deliberate  words.  It  pained  her  to  say  them, 
and  I  believe  she  would  have  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  ; 
but  she  repressed  her  emotion,  lest  it  should  encourage 
Angelo  to  a  more  earnest  persistency  of  his  suit. 

136 


The  Artist  Fails  to  Secure  a  Model 

The  effect  of  her  refusal  on  the  artist  was  singular 
in  the  extreme.  At  first  he  trembled,  in  every  limb,  and 
I  could  distinctly  see  drops  of  perspiration  glistening 
on  his  brow.  Then,  as  he  realised  all  the  bitterness 
of  his  position,  and  that  the  lovely  woman  before  him 
was  lost  to  him  forever  and  ever,  and  that  if  they  were 
to  live  a  thousand  years  on  the  earth  she  would  still  be 
as  cold  to  him  as  she  was  at  that  moment,  he  lifted  his 
arms  with  a  slow  motion  and  extended  them  towards 
her,  and  for  some  moments  he  maintained  this  position, 
petrified  to  rigidity,  staring  at  her  with  ghastly  look  and 
glassy  eye.  His  attitude  was  the  very  apotheosis  of 
despair. 

I  marvelled  at  his  emotion.  My  own  sense  of  dis 
appointment  on  hearing  Daphne  express  her  determi 
nation  to  remain  faithful  to  George  was  exquisitely  bit 
ter,  but,  bitter  as  it  was,  it  was  apparently  but  a  tithe  of 
the  pain  felt  by  the  artist. 

Several  times  he  tried  to  speak,  but  no  words 
came  from  his  dry  lips.  It  was  painful  to  see  him 
going  through  the  mockery  of  speaking,  yet  unable  to 
produce  a  sound.  It  was  as  if  the  dead,  touched  by 
some  galvanic  apparatus,  were  trying  to  assume  the 
mechanism  of  life,  and  when  at  last  he  did  speak  his 
strange  hollow  voice  aided  the  illusion. 

"  Miss  Leslie,  you  surely  cannot — cannot  mean 
that!" 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  was  the  cold  reply. 

Scarcely  able  to  keep  his  feet  the  artist  moved 
backward  till  he  touched  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  where 
he  leaned  for  support.  The  sight  of  his  misery 
touched  Daphne  to  the  quick,  and  she  cried  impulsively  : 

"  O  Mr.  Vasari,  I  am  sorry  for  you ;  but  I  cannot 
love  you.  I  cannot  forget  George.  Believe  me,  it 


137 


The  Weird  Picture 

pains  me  to  have  to  say  this.  Try  to  think  it  is  for  the 
best." 

She  placed  her  hand  timidly  on  his  arm ;  but  he 
swung  it  off  with  so  dark  an  expression  on  his  face  that 
I  had  almost  thrown  myself  between  them. 

"  I  want  not  your  pity,"  he  exclaimed  scornfully, 
turning  the  fire  of  his  eyes  on  her,  "  if  I  cannot  have 
your  love ! " 

And,  ignoble  at  heart,  he  began  now  to  sneer  at 
the  prize  he  found  beyond  his  reach. 

"  And  so,"  he  continued  in  a  bitter  tone,  "  rather 
than  accept  the  love  of  one  who  can  immortalise  you 
by  his  pencil  you  prefer  to  be  a  living  cenotaph  whose 
sad  aspect  testifies  the  esteem  set  upon  her  by  her  first 
lover !  " 

Dropping  his  sneering  tone  for  one  of  fierce  anger, 
he  added : 

"  You  must  have  some  less  fanciful  reason  for  re 
jecting  me  than  this  absurd  attachment  to — to  a 
shadow.  Tell  me,  do  you  not  love  another?  " 

"  Mr.  Vasari,  you  have  no  right  to  question  me  thus. 
You  have  received  your  answer,  and  this  meeting 
may  as  well  end,  since  it  seems  now  that  insult  is  to 
be  my  portion." 

And  she  turned  proudly  to  go. 

"  Stay !  "  cried  Angelo,  barring  her  passage.  "  You 
evade  my  question.  You  love  another.  Nay,  do  not 
deny  it.  I  will  not  accept  your  denial.  I  know  who 
my  rival  is.  Let  him  beware.  You  may  listen  to  his 
whispered  words,  smile  at  his  kisses,  receive  his  gifts ; 
but  never  shall  you  go  with  him  to  the  altar !  Rather 
will  I  see  you  dead  by  my  own  hand  first !" 

"Oh,  why  do  you  talk  so  wildly?  Leave  me  and 
think  no  more  of  me.  There  are  many  women  whose 


138 


The  Artist  Fails  to  Secure  a  Model 

love  is  more  worth  winning  than  mine.  Try  to  forget 
me." 

"  Forget  you  ?  "  and  he  laughed  bitterly.  "  There 
are  many  artists,  but  only  one  Raphael ;  there  are 
many  women,  but  only  one  Daphne.  O  Daphne !  dear, 
dear  Daphne ! " — his  manner  changed  at  once  from 
the  fierceness  of  scorn  to  the  softness  of  love,  as,  drop 
ping  on  one  knee,  he  held  her  struggling  hands  in  his 
and  covered  them  with  kisses,  "  do  not  refuse  me ! 
You 

"  Air.  Vasari,  if  is  not  right  to  detain  me  against 
my  wish.  Let  go  my  hands." 

He  obeyed  her,  sprang  to  his  feet,  but  continued 
his  pleading  tones : 

"  Daphne,  I  beseech  you  to  recall  your  decision.  You 
asked  for  a  day  to  consider.  Let  me  meet  you  here  in 
twenty-four  hours.  I  have  been  too  precipitate.  I  sur 
prise,  frighten  you.  You  were  not  prepared  for  this. 
Give  me  your  final  answer  to-morrow." 

"  I  have  given  you  my  answer." 

He  looked  at  her  beautiful  face,  so  cold  in  its  firm 
ness  to  resist  all  entreaties,  and  then,  turning  as  if  to 
address  an  imaginary  audience,  said : 

"  Can  this  cold  statue  really  be  the  same  maiden 
who  but  yesterday  smiled  at  my  gifts  and  blushed 
at  my  words?  How  quick  a  change  has  passed  over 
her !  Yes,"  he  continued,  observing  the  colour  that 
mounted  to  Daphne's  brow  at  these  last  words,  "  yes, 
blush  at  your  actions  of  yesterday.  You  cannot  deny 
that  by  your  words  and  your  smiles  you  have  encour 
aged  me  to  this  confession." 

"  Mr.  Vasari,"  she  returned,  speaking  very  humbly, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  one  pretty  little  foot  that  was 
shifting  uneasily  to  and  fro  on  the  greensward,  "  I 
cannot  deny  that  your  attentions  gave  me  pleasure. 

139 


The  Weird  Picture 

I  am  fond  of  admiration — perhaps  too  fond.  I  am 
only  too  sorry  now  that  my  vanity  had  led  you  to  put 
a  false  interpretation  on  what  was  intended  for  friend 
ship  only,  and  must  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

He  looked  with  a  wistful  gaze  at  her  fair  face,  but 
read  no  encouragement  there.  A  long  silence  ensued 
during  which  he  seemed  to  grow  calmer  and  more 
resigned  to  his  position. 

"  Enough  of  this  supplication,"  he  muttered,  fold 
ing  his  cloak  around  him  with  a  moody,  half-scornful 
air. 

Art  had  apparently  humiliated  itself  too  long  in  the 
presence  of  Beauty. 

"  Let  us  part  friends,"  said  Daphne. 

But  he  turned  from  the  little  hand  offered  to  him 
in  friendship.  Magnanimity  did  not  form  part  of  his 
character. 

"  Will  you  not  come  and  see  us  to-morrow  ?  "  said 
Daphne,  affecting  not  to  notice  the  repulse. 

"  I  leave  Rivoli  to-day — this  hour.  You  will  see  me 
no  more." 

"  Will  you  not  say  good-bye  to  my  father  and 
Frank  ? " 

A  scornful  gesture  of  refusal  was  his  only  reply, 
and,  with  a  dark  glance,  he  was  preparing  to  depart 
when  a  motion  from  Daphne  stopped  him. 

"  Angelo,"  she  said  in  a  plaintive,  supplicating  voice, 
and  using  the  Christian  name  of  the  artist — she  was 
loth  to  ask  the  question  of  him,  and  yet  felt  that  she 
must — "  Angelo,  answer  me  truly.  If  you  know  any 
thing  of  Captain  Willard — and  your  words  just  now 
seemed  to  imply  that  you  do — tell  me,  I  implore  you, 
and  I  will  be — your — your  best  friend,"  she  added,  as 
if  sorry  she  could  not  offer  him  the  highest  place  in 
her  regard.  "  Do  you  know  where  he  is  ?  " 

140 


The  Artist  Fails  to  Secure  a  Model 

"Do  I  know  where  he  is?"  repeated  the  Italian 
with  a  peculiar  laugh.  He  turned  back,  took  a  step 
nearer  to  Daphne,  and  said : 

"  You  are  nearer  to  him  now  than  you  have  been 
for  months." 

He  seemed  on  the  point  of  saying  more,  but,  sud 
denly  turning  on  his  heel,  he  left  her. 

"  O  Angelo,  what  do  you  mean  ? "  she  called  out 
after  him. 

But  the  artist  was  now  plunging  down  the  mountain 
side,  and  if  he  heard  her  words,  did  not  at  any  rate 
reply  to  them.  Daphne  watched  him  sadly  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then,  turning  away,  began  to  ascend  the 
zigzag  path  which  led  to  the  chalet.  Not  wishing  to  let 
her  know  that  I  had  been  a  spectator  of  the  interview, 
I  remained  where  I  was,  and  gazed  after  the  retreating 
figure  of  Angelo,  who  was  springing  down  from  crag 
to  crag  in  a  manner  that  augured  very  little  care  for 
his  own  safety,  his  dark  locks  and  long  cloak  swaying 
on  the  breeze. 

I,  Frank  Willard,  sitting  there  on  that  calm  summer 
day  amid  the  loveliest  scenery  of  Switzerland,  rich 
in  youth  and  health,  endowed  by  my  uncle  with  a 
competent  fortune,  and  with  nothing  much  to  trouble 
my  conscience,  will  seem  to  many  an  object  of  envy ; 
and  yet  there  I  was,  bewailing  what  I  called  my  sad 
destiny,  and  sentimentally  thinking  myself  the  most 
unhappy  of  mankind. 

Daphne's  avowal  of  her  continued  love  for  George 
had  cast  a  gloom  over  me.  Was  I  again  to  tread  the 
Via  Dolorosa  of  hopeless  love,  and,  as  the  melancholy 
student  of  Heidelberg,  to  outwatch  the  stars  once 
more  on  the  solitary  crags  of  the  Odenwald? 

"  Living  or  dead,  I  will  remain  faithful  to  his  mem 
ory." 

141 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  You  are  nearer  to  him  now  than  you  have  been 
for  months." 

These  two  sentences  continued  to  haunt  my  mind 
all  the  way  to  the  chalet.  The  artist's  parting  words 
seemed  to  imply  that  George  was  living  at  Rivoli—- 
an  idea  that  had  previously  occurred  to  me.  What 
would  become  of  my  love-dream  if,  on  hearing  that 
Daphne  was  at  Rivoli,  George  should  emerge  from 
his  seclusion  with  some  strange  but  justifiable  reason 
for  his  past  conduct?  Would  he  do  this,  I  wondered, 
or  would  he  remain  hidden  in  obscurity?  A  shadow 
fell  across  my  path.  I  looked  up,  and  the  porch  of 
the  chalet  fronted  me  with  its  legend,  ominous,  so  it 
seemed  to  me,  of  some  coming  tragedy: 

"He  shall  return!" 


142 


CHAPTER  X 

GHOST  OR  MORTAL  ? 

ON  entering  the  house  I  found  my  uncle  looking 
over  a  packet  of  letters  that  his  valet  had  just 
brought  from  Rivoli.  Daphne  was  cutting 
open  the  envelopes  with  a  paper  knife.  No  one  would 
have  thought  from  her  quiet  demeanour  that  she  had 
just  been  the  recipient  of  a  passionate  love  appeal. 

"  How  well  women  can  conceal  these  things,"  I 
thought,  dropping  despondently  into  a  chair. 

"  Oh,  papa,  here  is  an  envelope  with  a  seal  as  big 
as  a  florin.  Who  is  it  from  ?  "  Daphne's  curiosity  gave 
her  no  time  to  observe  the  niceties  of  grammar.  "  Do 
read  it." 

My  uncle  settled  his  glasses  on  his  nose  and  ex 
amined  the  letter. 

"  It  is  from  an  old  schoolfellow,  Hugh  Wyville,"  he 
said.  "  He  has  just  succeeded  to  the  baronetcy  and 
is  now  Sir  Hugh  Wyville,  and  master  of  a  splendid 
property  in  Cornwall.  Silverdale  Abbey  is  the  name 
of  his  place.  He  wants  us  to  spend  Christmas  witli 
him.  It's  a  little  early  for  the  invitation,  but  I  suppose 
he  wants  to  forestall  all  other  invitations.  He  says — 
it  is  shocking  writing ;  he  ought  to  get  a  Secretary — 
he  says  he  will  take  a  great  interest  in  my  slaughter. 
What  the  deuce  does  he  mean?  Slaughter?  Oh,  I 
see — daughter.  That's  you,  Daphne." 

"  Much  obliged  to  him,  I'm  sure,  papa." 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  He  is  now  in  Paris  buying  pictures.  Says  his 
gallery  alone  is  worth  a  visit  to  Cornwall,  and  he  is 
adding  to  it  still.  Well,  what  shall  we  say  to  the 
invitation,  Daphne  ?  Shall  we  accept  it  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  say,  Frank  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  say,  yes,"  I  answered.  "  Christmas  at  an  old 
abbey  ought  to  be  delightful." 

"  Then  that  is  settled,"  my  uncle  said.  "  I'll  write 
to  him  to-day."  And  being  a  man  of  his  word,  he 
wrote. 

"  There  are  to  be  all  sorts  of  sports  at  Rivoli  this 
afternoon,"  he  announced  at  luncheon — "  archery, 
musical  contests,  dances,  and  I  don't  know  what  else. 
Would  you  like  to  see  them,  Daphne,  or  are  you  too 
tired  ? " 

She  pleaded  that  she  was,  but  would  not  hear  of  our 
remaining  at  home  on  her  account,  and  as  my  uncle 
seemed  to  expect  my  company,  I  set  off  with  him  to  the 
town,  conscious  that  I  was  a  little  unchivalrous  to 
Daphne  in  doing  so. 

On  our  way  through  the  valley  I  paused  to  admire  a 
cottage  of  firwood  perched  on  a  crag  overhanging  the 
road. 

"  That  is  the  house  in  which  Angelo  said  his  old 
nurse  lives,"  said  my  uncle,  looking  at  it  with  interest. 
"  Let  us  give  a  call." 

"  What  for?  "  I  asked,  surprised. 

"  Well,  I  am  curious  to  know  what  his  explanation 
of  that  affair  in  the  cathedral  is,  and  he  might  refer 
to  it ;  indeed,  I  don't  see  how  he  can  avoid  doing  so." 

We  ascended  some  steps  roughly  cut  out  of  the 
solid  rock,  and  entering  a  porch  over  which  a  vine 
clambered,  we  tapped  gently  at  the  door.  It  was 
opened  by  the  old  woman  who  had  offered  her  good 
services  to  Daphne  in  the  cathedral.  The  moment  she 

144 


Ghost  or  Mortal? 

saw  us  her  face  assumed  a  hard  expression,  and  con 
trary  to  the  hospitable  spirit  usual  in  the  district  did 
not  invite  us  inside  but  kept  us  standing  at  the  door. 

"  What  do  you  want  ? "  she  demanded  curtly. 

"  We  want  to  see  Mr.  Vasari,  if  he  is  at  home,"  my 
uncle  answered  civilly.  "  We  are  friends  of  his.  Per 
haps  you  have  heard  him  speak  of  Mr.  Leslie.  I  am 
Mr.  Leslie." 

"  Angelo  is  not  here.    He  has  left  for  England." 

"  What  ?    Without  saying  good-bye  to  us  ?  " 

"  He  left  by  the  diligence  two  hours  ago." 

"  So  soon  ?    Do  you  know  why  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  "  she  flashed  out.  "  Ask  this  boy  here !  " 
and  she  turned  to  me  with'  a  lowering  brow.  "  But  for 
you  he  would  have  won  the  love  of  the  English  lady. 
But  for  you  he  would  have  been  saved  from — from — " 

"  From  what  ?  "  I  said  eagerly,  too  eagerly  I  sup 
pose,  for  she  shook  her  head  as  if  she  took  a  pleasure  in 
withholding  the  information  she  was  about  to  give. 

"  I  will  tell  you  nothing,"  she  said.  "  He  can  live 
without  your  pity.  Go !  After  all,  she  is  a  Protestant, 
and  all  Protestants  go  to  hell.  Father  Ignatius  says 
so." 

''  That  is  our  ultimate  destination,  I  believe,"  said 
my  uncle  with  a  sigh,  due  rather  to  vexation  at  finding 
himself  unable  to  get  the  information  he  wanted  than 
to  proper  regret  at  his  future  doom.  "  We  are  a 
wicked  lot." 

"  Can  you  tell  us  why  Father  Ignatius  refused 
Angelo  the  Mass  ?  "  I  asked.  "  That  looks  as  if  the 
good  Father  were  not  any  too  confident  about  him." 

Her  eyes  blazed  at  the  suggestion. 

"  I  will  tell  you  nothing,"  she  said  again,  and  closed 
her  lips  tightly  as  if  she  feared  that  her  thoughts 
might  assume  material  shape  and  make  their  escape 

145 


The  Weird  Picture 

against  her  will,  if  her  mouth  were  ever  so  little  open. 

"  We  shall  gain  nothing  by  staying  here,"  my  uncle 
remarked.  "  Madame,  I  wish  you  a  very  good  day," 
with  which  words  he  led  the  way  down  to  the  road 
again,  and  we  resumed  our  journey  to  the  town,  won 
dering  what  it  was  from  which  the  artist  might  have 
been  saved,  and  how  Daphne's  love  could  have  saved 
him  from  it. 

"  We  may  see  your  aged  friend  from  Dover  to-day, 
if  we  keep  our  eyes  open,"  my  uncle  said  presently. 
"  The  sports  are  sure  to  draw  all  the  people  out  of 
doors." 

"  We  may  see  Paolo  too,"  I  replied.  "  It  is  strange 
that  he  did  not  turn  up  last  night  as  he  promised,  and 
strange  that  he  wasn't  at  Mass  this  morning ;  at  least  if 
he  was  I  did  not  see  him." 

"  Not  at  all  strange,  if  Father  Ignatius  has  ordered 
him  to  avoid  us." 

"  Why  should  he  do  that  ?  "  I  asked  in  surprise. 

"  You  remember  Paolo  breaking  off  from  us  sud 
denly,  because,  as  he  said,  some  deacon  was  watching 
him?" 

"  I  do — Serafino  he  called  him." 

"  That's  the  name.  Well,  it's  not  at  all  improbable 
that  this  Serafino  told  Ignatius  that,  immediately 
after  his  retirement  to  the  sacristy  with  the  old  man, 
certain  strangers  began  to  question  Paolo,  giving  him 
money.  Thereupon  Ignatius  sends  for  Paolo.  '  Paolo/ 
he  demands  ex  cathedra,  '  what  did  these  strangers 
say  to  you  ? '  perhaps  threatening  to  dismiss  him  from 
his  post,  or,  still  more,  threatening  the  poor  fellow  with 
excommunication,  if  he  should  refuse  to  disclose  his 
knowledge.  Paolo  blurts  out  the  truth,  and  lets  the 
padre  know  that  we  are  deeply  interested  in  learning 
what  the  old  man's  confession  was  about.  Whereupon 

146 


Ghost  or  Mortal? 

the  reverend  Father,  not  at  all  desirous  of  our  becom 
ing  cognisant  of  statements  given  under  the  seal  of  the 
confessional,  delivers  judgment:  'Paolo  you  have 
done  very  wrong.  Give  up  those  silver  coins  to  your 
holy  mother  the  Church ;  and  as  a  penance  recite  to  me 
next  holy-day  the  HQth  Psalm,  and  remember  to  keep 
out  of  the  way  till  these  strangers  have  left  Rivoli.'  I 
may  be  wrong,  but  it's  my  opinion  that  something  of 
this  sort  has  taken  place." 

We  were  soon  within  the  streets  of  Rivoli.  All  the 
inhabitants  seemed  to  have  turned  out  of  their  homes, 
and  by  the  merriment  of  their  talk  and  the  brightness 
of  their  gala  dresses  were  contributing  to  the  gaiety 
of  the  scene. 

The  centre  of  attraction  was  the  market-place, 
where  picturesquely-clad  hunters  and  shepherds  were 
displaying  their  skill  with  the  rifle  to  admiring  and 
applauding  crowds.  These  sons  of  William  Tell  did 
not  receive  from  us  the  attention  that  their  feats  de 
served,  for  our  eyes  were  continually  wandering  from 
them  to  scan  the  faces  of  the  spectators.  Paolo,  how 
ever,  and  the  nameless  old  man  from  Dover  were  not 
to  be  seen. 

From  the  sweet  singing-contests  in  the  cathedral  we 
wandered  to  the  meadows  outside  the  town,  where 
youths  and  flower-crowned  maidens  danced,  wreathing 
and  twining  in  pretty  figures  on  the  greensward,  and 
thence  back  again  to  the  town,  peeping  in  each  tavern, 
resonant  with  jollity  and  song,  and  odorous  with  the 
fragrance  of  the  fir-cones  that  strewed  the  floor.  But 
we  could  not  find  Paolo  or  the  mysterious  old  man. 

Tired  at  length  of  prosecuting  a  search  that  seemed 
to  promise  no  success,  we  turned  our  attention  to  the 
innocent  diversions,  which  were  protracted  till  the 
moon,  rising  above  the  shining  snows  of  the  mountain- 

147 


The  Weird  Picture 

tops,  projected  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral  belfry 
across  the  market-place.  The  white  light  silvered  the 
quaint  gables,  was  reflected  from  the  diamond  panes 
of  many  a  casement,  and,  mingling  with  the  glare 
of  the  torches  carried  by  some  of  the  crowd,  produced 
a  picturesque  and  romantic  effect. 

The  sweet  carillon  of  the  cathedral  bells,  pealing 
forth  the  quarters,  warned  the  people  that  midnight 
was  drawing  nigh,  and  gradually  the  throng  began  to 
disperse.  Imitating  their  example  my  uncle  and  I 
directed  our  footsteps  homewards.  Groups  of  peasants 
and  shepherds  passed  us  on  the  way,  some  singing 
gaily,  others  winding  with  their  horns  the  melodious 
"  Rons  des  Vaches" 

As  we  turned  to  quit  the  road  for  the  mountain-path, 
the  cathedral  bell  chimed  the  first  stroke  of  midnight. 
'  Twelve  o'clock !  "  exclaimed  my  uncle  in  a  deep, 
tragic  voice.  "  Now  is  the  time  when  elves  and  fairies 
trip  it  on  the  greensward,  and  spirits  rise  from  yon 
haunted  well.  Come,  let  us  sit  by  it  for  a  time  and 
enjoy  the  ghostly  revels.  It  is  an  affront  to  Nature 
to  sleep  on  such  a  night  as  this." 

Slowly  the  silver  tongue  from  the  belfry  continued 
to  toll  forth  the  chimes  with  a  solemn  little  interval  be 
tween  each.  As  the  twelfth  stroke  died  gently  away,  a 
peculiar  sound,  muffled  by  the  distance,  was  wafted  to 
my  ears,  seeming  to  my  quickened  fancy  like  the  cry  of 
a  woman.  Whence  the  sound  proceeded  I  could  not  tell, 
It  might  have  come  from  the  north  ;  it  might  have  come 
from  the  south. 

"  Did  you  hear  it?  "  I  said. 

"Hear  what?" 

"  A  sound  like  a  woman's  scream." 

We  both  listened  for  a  few  moments,  but  the  sound, 
whatever  it  was,  was  not  repeated. 

148 


Ghost  or  Mortal ? 

"  Your  fancy,"  my  uncle  remarked  with  a  smile. 
"  In  such  a  place  as  this  you  will  hear  many  ghostly 
cries,  if  you  give  your  imagination  rein.  But  don't 
let  us  turn  in  just  yet.  I've  some  good  news  for  you." 

Wondering  a  good  deal  what  the  news  would  be, 
I  followed  him  to  the  fountain.  He  found  a  seat 
on  a  mossy  boulder  close  to  the  stone-work  of  the 
well,  and  leaning  back  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree, 
proceeded  to  light  a  fresh  cigar,  as  an  indispensable 
aid  to  reflection. 

The  moon  was  now  at  its  zenith,  riding  through  a 
veil  of  light  fleecy  clouds.  Around  us  at  the  distance 
of  a  furlong  towered  an  amphitheatre  of  rocks,  and 
the  jagged  edges  of  this  cliff  sharply  defined  against 
the  deep  violet  sky  exhibited  crags  of  fantastic  shape 
like  the  towers  and  pinnacles  of  some  genie's  castle.  It 
required  but  small  aid  from  fancy  to  believe  that  the 
blast  of  a  horn  startling  the  midnight  air  would  sum 
mon  to  these  crags  beings  as  wild  and  unearthly  as 
ever  crowded  the  haunted  Brocken  on  a  Walpurgis- 
night.  No  more  appropriate  scene  could  be  imagined 
for  the  revelry  of  demons  and  witches. 

The  solemn  hour  and  the  wild  legends  connected 
with  the  spring  contributed  to  invest  the  place  with  an 
atmosphere  of  mystery.  The  trees  whispered  secrets  to 
each  other :  the  waters  rippled  with  a  cold  and  ghostly 
sparkle.  In  the  distance  foaming  waterfalls  standing 
out  in  relief  against  a  background  of  dark  rocks  glim 
mered  like  waving  white-robed  spirits  with  a  never- 
ceasing  murmur.  The  air  seemed  alive  with  the  mystic 
"  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names  on  sands,  and 
shores,  and  desert  wildernesses." 

\Vho  that  has  visited  a  scene  of  deep  beauty  by 
moonlight  has  not  felt  an  awe  stealing  over  him,  as  if 
some  unseen  presence  were  by?  Such  a  presence 

149 


The  Weird  Picture 

seemed  to  be  floating  around  us,  whispering  that  we 
were  on  haunted  ground.  Was  it  the  far-off  mur 
mur  of  a  cascade  or  the  faint  voice  of  some  one  calling 
for  help  that  was  wafted  to  our  ears  ? 

So  firm  was  my  belief  that  the  sound  was  of  human 
origin  that  I  appealed  to  my  uncle,  who  had  been 
strangely  silent. 

"  Did  you  not  hear  a  distant  cry,  as  of  some  one  in 
pain?" 

"  I  thought  so,  but  it  must  be  fancy.  Let  us  listen 
again." 

We  were  silent  for  a  time,  but  there  was  no  repeti 
tion  of  the  sound. 

"  Some  shepherds  calling  one  another,"  he  said, 
resuming1  his  cigar  with  a  laugh.  "  We  are  becoming 
influenced  by  the  superstitions  of  the  place." 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  communication  he 
had  promised  to  make,  so  I  reverted  to  it. 

"  You  were  going  to  tell  me  a  piece  of  news,  I 
think?" 

"Ah!  so  I  was.  (If  you  wouldn't  mind  turning 
your  head  from  me,  Frank ;  your  eyes  seem  to  have 
an  unearthly  gleam  by  this  light.  Thank  you!)  Well, 
here  is  my  news.  Daphne  had  a  proposal  to-day.  You 
can  guess  from  whom." 

"  Is  that  your  news  ?  Then  it  is  no  news  at  all.  I 
know  it  already." 

'  The  deuce  you  do !    How  did  you  learn  it  ?  " 

"  I  was  present  during  the  whole  interview."  I 
gave  him  an  account  of  how  I  came  to  play  the  spy, 
adding :  "  How  did  you  learn  it  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  directly  after  parting  from  him.  Poor 
Daphne !  she  was  quite  upset  over  it — crying,  in  fact." 

"  She  might  have  spared  her  tears,"  I  grumbled. 
"  His  love  was  not  so  disinterested  that  she  need  weep. 


Ghost  or  Mortal? 

My  candid  opinion  is  that  the  fellow  is  so  mad  over 
his  art  that  it  governs  even  his  choice  of  a  wife,  and  he 
selects  Daphne  because  he  thinks  her  figure  will  serve 
as  a  model  for  some  of  his  pictures."  And  I  de 
tailed  to  my  uncle  those  utterances  of  the  artist  that 
seemed  to  bear  out  my  opinion. 

"  A  naive  avowal,  certainly.  His  mode  ot  love- 
making  was  a  fine  example  of  '  How  not  to  do  it.'  And 
so,"  he  continued,  after  a  brief  interval,  "  Daphne  still 
hopes  and  dreams  that  George  will  return.  Absurd ! 
I  thought  she  had  given  up  that  idea  long  ago.  How 
ever,  let  him  return.  He  shall  never  have  Daphne — 
never !  " 

He  said  that  last  word  in  a  decidedly  emphatic 
manner,  and  scarcely  had  he  said  it  when  a  startled 
expression  crossed  his  face,  the  cigar  dropped  from 
his  lips,  and  he  looked  nervously  round  in  all  direc 
tions. 

"My  dear  uncle,  what  is  the  matter?"  said  I, 
amused  at  his  alarm. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  a  laugh?  " 

"  A  laugh  ?  No !  Why,  you  are  becoming  nerv 
ous  !  " 

Never  before  had  I  seen  my  uncle  looking  so 
startled  as  he  was  at  that  moment.  The  one  point  of 
his  character  on  which  he  prided  himself  was  his  dis 
belief  in  the  supernatural.  To  see  him  trembling  at  a 
mere  sound  was  a  surprise  to  me.  I  had  yet  to  learn 
that  extremes  meet.  Have  there  not  lived  philosophers 
who,  denying  the  existence  of  ghosts,  have  nevertheless 
been  so  apprehensive  of  meeting  them  as  never  to  en 
ter  a  dark  room  without  a  light?  My  uncle's  philos 
ophy  savoured  very  much  of  this  character. 

"  Bah !  "  he  exclaimed,  picking  up  his  cigar  from  the 
grass  after  listening  intently.  "  You  are  right.  I  am 


The  Weird  Picture 

becoming  nervous.  Well,  I  was  on  the  point  of 
saying " 

"  That  you  will  never  allow  George  to  marry 
Daphne.  Why?" 

"  Why  ?  Can  you  ask  ?  Is  not  the  reason  obvious  ? 
A  man  who  could  desert  her  on  her  wedding-day, 
sending  a  cold  note  to  the  effect  that  she  must  never 
see  him  more,  forfeits  her  by  that  very  act.  Good 
God!  I  become  mad  when  I  think  of  his  conduct. 
Remember  Daphne's  thin,  wasted  figure  and  wan,  wist 
ful  look  last  spring.  She  might  have  died.  Grief  has 
killed  people  before  to-day.  He  must  have  known  how 
much  her  heart  would  be  wrung  by  his  conduct,  and 
yet — never  a  word  of  explanation  from  him.  No.  If 
he  were  to  return  this  very  night,  he  should  never 
have  her — never !  " 

"  I  have  often  wondered  why  he  took  his  departure 
so  hurriedly." 

"  His  reason  must  have  been  a  very  bad  one  if  it 
could  not  be  stated  by  letter  even  to  his  nearest  rela 
tives,"  replied  my  uncle,  speaking  in  a  very  bitter  tone, 
for  naturally  he  could  not  be  expected  to  think  well  of 
the  man  who  had  deserted  his  daughter,  even  though 
that  man  were  his  own  nephew.  "  His  flight  was  ac 
companied  by  very  suspicious  circumstances,  you  must 
admit,  seeming  to  point  to  complicity  with,  if  not  to  the 
actual  perpetration  of  crime.  He  will  never  return, 
rest  assured  of  that;  and  I  told  Daphne  to  abandon 
the  idea." 

"  What  was  her  answer  ?  " 

"  Tears.  '  Look  around  you/  I  said.  '  You  will 
soon  find  a  worthier  lover.  Frank  loves  you,  and  you 
know  it.'  And  I  launched  out  into  your  praises,  for 
between  ourselves,  Frank,  there  is  no  one  to  whom  I 
would  more  willingly  give  Daphne  than  yourself." 

152 


Ghost  or  Mortal? 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  thanked  my  uncle  for  thus 
championing  my  cause,  but  I  preferred  Daphne's  love 
to  turn  towards  me  without  being  directed  by  paternal 
authority,  so  I  merely  said: 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"She  said  that  she  could  not  so  soon  forget  George, 
but  that  if  he  had  not  returned  by  a  twelvemonth  from 
the  day  he  left — " 

"  That  is,  next  Christmas  Day  ?  " 

"  Just  so ;  next  Christmas  Day.  If  he  had  not  re 
turned  by  then  she  would  try  to  think  no  more  of 
him." 

"  Next  Christmas  Day !    What  a  whimsical  notion !  " 

"  Exactly.  Women  are  whimsical,"  returned  my 
uncle,  speaking  as  if  he  had  had  all  the  experience  of  a 
Mormon.  "  Well,  she  did  not  seem —  What  the 
devil's  that  ? "  he  exclaimed  with  a  suddenness  that 
startled  me. 

The  "  airy  tongues,"  that  during  the  whole  time  of 
our  conversation  had  never  ceased  to  whisper  mys 
teriously,  had  now  changed  to  a  series  of  deep  and 
regularly  recurring  sighs.  They  were  not  the  creation 
of  our  fancy.  Distinguishable  from  the  murmur  of 
the  fountain  was  a  sound  as  of  some  one  breathing. 
It  proceeded  from  a  cluster  of  trees  on  one  side  of  the 
spring. 

Too  much  surprised  to  speak,  my  uncle  and  I  sat 
staring  at  each  other  without  either  will  or  power  to 
move.  Then,  shaking  off  the  spell  that  lay  upon  us, 
we  rose  and  stepped  on  tip-toe  to  the  spot  whence 
came  the  sound,  moving  cautiously  and  softly,  as 
though  within  the  grove  some  terrible  dragon  lay 
sleeping  which  loud  footsteps  might  awaken.  Within 
the  gloom  created  by  a  canopy  of  dense  foliage  we 
caught  the  gleam  of  something  white.  Our  eyes,  un- 

153 


The  Weird  Picture 

accustomed  at  first  to  the  darkness,  could  distinguish 
nothing  clearly,  but  gradually  the  object  of  our  atten 
tion  resolved  itself  into  the  seated  figure  of  a  woman. 
I  thought  at  first  that  it  was  the  statue  of  some  nymph, 
but  the  eyes,  shining  like  stars,  dispelled  this  illusion. 
Four  steps  nearer,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  no  Dryad 
of  the  grove  or  Undine  of  the  waters,  but  our  own 
loved  Daphne.  She  seemed  petrified  with  terror. 

"  Good  heavens,  Daphne !  "  cried  her  father.  "  What 
are  you  doing  here  at  this  hour  of  night  ?  " 

The  only  reply  to  this  question  was  a  continuation  of 
the  deep  inspirations  that  had  drawn  our  attention  to 
her.  Fright  had  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  speech. 

"  She  is  recovering  from  a  swoon,"  said  my  uncle. 
"  What  can  have  frightened  her  ?  Daphne,  dear,  tell 
us  what  is  the  matter.  All  is  well  now.  Don't  be 
afraid.  Tell  us  how  long  you  have  been  here." 

"How  long?  Ah!  a  long  time,"  she  murmured, 
speaking  like  one  in  a  dream. 

A  sigh  of  relief  escaped  her  father's  lips,  for  her 
reply  seemed  an  assurance  of  her  sanity,  and  his 
first  thought  had  been  that  fright  had  turned  her  brain. 
Her  wild  expression  might  well  have  given  him  this 
idea. 

"  Tell  me  what  is  the  matter,  darling,"  he  said,  lift 
ing  her,  and  stroking  her  hair  with  a  fatherly  tender 
ness.  "  My  poor  little  girl !  " 

She  gazed  fearfully  around,  as  if  dreading  some 
awful  vision.  Then  closing  her  eyes  with  a  shudder, 
she  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  clung  like  a 
child  to  his  embrace. 

"  Have  you  not  seen  it?  "  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  We  have  seen  nothing,  that  is,  nothing  to  be  fright 
ened  at.  Come,  open  your  eyes  and  look  at  me,  darling. 
Tell  me  all  about  it.  What  has  frightened  you  so  ?  " 

154 


Ghost  or  Mortal? 

She  was  so  thoroughly  unnerved  that  it  was  a  long 
time  before  she  could  be  induced  to  talk  at  all.  When 
at  last  she  did  reply  her  words  were  not  a  little 
startling. 

"  O,  papa.    I  have  seen  George's  ghost !  " 

My  uncle  shot  a  glance  half  whimsical,  half  nervous 
at  me,  for  it  was  very  odd  that  her  explanation  should 
have  reference  to  the  man  of  whom  we  ourselves  had 
just  been  talking.  But  he  affected  a  laugh  of  kindly 
scepticism. 

"  George's  ghost,  eh  ?  And  how  could  you  see 
George's  ghost  when  he  isn't  dead?  How  long  have 
you  been  here,  and  why  did  you  come  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  him  ever  since  you  went 
out,"  she  said,  after  another  long  pause.  "  He  has  been 
in  my  mind  all  the  time,  and  try  as  I  would  I  could  not 
get  his  face  out  of  my  thoughts.  I  wondered  whether 
he  were  alive  or  dead,  and  at  last  I  began  to  feel  that 
he  must  be  dead,  or  he  would  have  returned  before  this, 
or  would  at  least  have  written  to  me.  To-night  was 
so  lovely  that  I  came  out  partly  to  meet  you,  and  I 
came  to  this  well,  and  stopped  as  I  was  rather  tired. 
And  then  I  took  off  the  ring  he  gave  me,  and — "  She 
paused  between  each  sentence  as  if  it  hurt  her  to  go  on, 
but  the  mere  fact  of  telling  her  story  seemed  to  do  her 
good,  and  she  continued.  "  And  I  thought  that  as  he 
had  broken  all  his  promises  and  cast  me  off  on  the 
very  day  fixed  for  our  wedding,  I  would  cast  off  his 
ring ;  and  at  last  I  made  up  my  mind,  and  I  threw  it 
into  the  well.  And  presently  I  looked  up,  and  there,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  well  was — "  she  hesitated  again, 
and  clung  closer  to  her  father — "  don't  laugh,  papa 
dear,  it  really  was  George's  ghost." 

"  I'm  not  laughing,"  her  father  said.  "  Tell  me  how 
he  looked." 

155 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  He  was  wearing  the  same  dress  and  the  same  grey 
cloak  that  he  wore  the  night  he  left  me.  He  looked 
so  sad,  as  if  he  had  understood  all  that  I  had  been 
thinking.  I  tried  to  speak,  but  in  a  moment  he  was 
gone.  And  then  I  screamed  and  turned  to  run  away, 
but  I  suppose  I  fainted. — It  was  not  fancy,  papa.  It 
was  George's  ghost.  I  could  see  the  stars  shining 
through  him." 

"  Well,  well ! "  her  father  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  but  still  stroking  her  hair ;  "  we  will  see 
whether  you  are  of  the  same  opinion  to-morrow  morn 
ing.  You  see,  your  mind  has  been  full  of  him  all  clay, 
and  at  last  it  has  played  you  a  trick,  and  you  think 
you  have  seen  with  your  bodily  eyes  what  could  have 
existed  only  in  your  imagination.  Sitting  all  alone 
at  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  in  this  eerie  place,  I  only 
wonder  that  you  haven't  seen  half-a-dozen  ghosts. 
When  you  are  indoors  by  a  bright  fire  after  a  second 
supper,  you  will  laugh  yourself  at  your  fright.  Do  you 
think  you  can  walk  all  right  now,  if  I  give  you  an 
arm  ?  Come,  that's  splendid !  The  sooner  you  are 
away  from  this  weird  spot  and  out  of  this  heavy  dew, 
the  better." 

"  Did  you  say  you  threw  the  ring  into  the  well, 
Daphne,"  I  asked,  "  or  only  that  you  were  going  to  do 
so?" 

"  I  threw  it  in,"  she  replied ;  "  but  never  mind,  let  it 
stay  there." 

"  Oh,  but  that's  a  pity,"  her  father  said.  "  You  may 
be  sorry  afterwards,  and  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  re 
cover  it.  Have  a  try,  Frank." 

"  Didn't  you  take  it  out  of  the  water,  again  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  No." 


156 


Ghost  or  Mortal? 

"  Then  where  is  it  ?  I  am  looking  hard,  but  I  can't 
see  it." 

We  all  peered  into  the  fountain.  There  was  plenty 
of  light  for  the  purpose,  and  we  could  see  the  sandy 
bottom  of  the  well  quite  clearly,  but  the  ring  was  no 
where  visible. 

"  Can't  you  see  it  ?  "  said  Daphne  anxiously. 

I  hesitated  to  reply  as  I  did  not  want  to  add  to  her 
alarm,  but  as  she  pressed  me  I  said  as  carelessly  as  I 
could — 

"  I  don't  see  it  in  the  water.  You  must  have  thrown 
it  on  to  the  grass ; "  and  I  began  to  feel  among  the 
moss  and  verdure  that  fringed  the  stonework  of  the 
well. 

"  No,  it  fell  into  the  water,"  Daphne  said.  "  I  heard 
the  splash,  and  noticed  the  rings  of  water  widening 
out  before  I  looked  up  and  saw — George !  It  must 
be  there." 

It  was  not  to  be  found,  however,  either  in  the  well 
or  on  the  bordering  grass,  and  we  had  to  give  up  the 
search  and  make  up  our  minds  to  go  home  without  it. 
Language  is  but  a  feeble  thing  to  express  the  surprise 
we  all  felt,  and  I  could  guess  from  the  expression  on 
Daphne's  face  something  of  her  thoughts.  In  throw 
ing  away  George's  ring  she  had  thrown  away  the 
pledge  of  her  love  for  him,  and  from  the  mysterious 
manner  in  which  it  had  disappeared  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  the  dead  had  accepted  her  renunciation. 

I  had  long  been  familiar  with  the  idea  that  at  the 
point  of  death  the  disembodied  spirit  may  appear  to 
distant  friends;  and  the  thought  now  held  me 
that  the  figure  I  had  seen  last  Christmas  amid  the 
falling  snow  at  Dover  was  the  apparition  of  my 
brother,  who  had  perhaps  been  seized  with  death  in 
a  manner  secret  and  sudden.  Could  it  be  that,  owing 

157 


The  Weird  Picture 

to  some  telepathic  influence  exerted  on  him  by 
Daphne's  mind,  his  spirit  had  been  permitted  to  return 
to  earth  for  a  brief  space  to  assure  her  of  his  death, 
and  by  vanishing  with  the  ring  that  she  was  now  free 
from  her  engagement  to  him?  In  the  light  of  day 
and  far  from  the  scene  of  the  event  one  may  smile  at 
this  theory,  but  by  that  well  in  the  ghostly  moonlight, 
with  Daphne's  terror  fresh  on  me,  and  the  ring  gone, 
it  seemed  quite  in  harmony  with  the  circumstances. 
The  eerie  sensation  that  had  been  creeping  over  my 
uncle  and  myself  since  we  had  taken  our  station  by 
the  haunted  well  deepened  now  to  an  indescribable 
intensity. 

Our  interval  of  uneasy  silence  was  brought  to  a 
close  by  a  sound  of  many  voices  stealing  faintly  on 
the  breeze — so  faintly  that  we  disputed  at  first  what 
it  was.  The  sounds  drew  gradually  nearer,  and  their 
measured  rhythmic  cadence  would  have  suggested  a 
party  of  peasants  returning  home,  but  that  the  music 
had  more  the  air  of  a  solemn  litany  than  of  revelry. 
Daphne,  wondering  what  new  source  of  surprise  or 
terror  was  in  store  for  her,  clung  trembling  to  her 
father.  The  place  where  we  stood  was  elevated  above 
the  roadway,  and  we  by  and  by  saw  winding  along  its 
course  a  procession  of  cowled  and  corded  monks, 
marching  two  and  two  in  solemn  order,  and  chanting 
a  mournful  refrain.  Some  bore  aloft  flaming  torches, 
an  act  that,  even  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  I 
could  not  help  thinking  to  be  an  absurdity,  seeing  that 
the  moonlight  made  everything  as  bright  as  day.  A 
few  of  the  train  were  boys,  and  their  silvery  trebles 
made  sweet  contrast  with  the  deep  bass  of  their  elders. 

With  bowed  heads  and  measured  pace  the  monks 
advanced,  seeming  in  their  grey  robes  silvered  by  the 


158 


Ghost  or  Mortal? 

moonlight  more  like  ghostly  figures  in  a  dream  than 
living  beings  in  a  real  world. 

Those  at  the  head  of  the  procession  were  carrying 
a  bier  upon  which  lay  something  covered  with  a  cas 
sock. 

"  A  strange  hour  for  a  burial,"  said  my  uncle,  "  if 
burial  it  be.  Or  are  they  carrying  to  the  town  some 
dead  body  they  have  discovered  among  the  moun 
tains?" 

"  O  papa ! "  cried  Daphne,  clutching  her  father's 
arm,  and  speaking  in  a  broken  voice,  "  can  he  have 
committed  suicide  ?  " 

"Who?" 

"  Angelo !  I  remember  his  wild  look  when  he  left 
me.  Oh,  if  it  should  be " 

"  No,  no,  you  are  frightening  yourself  without  rea 
son,"  said  her  father  in  a  reassuring  tone.  "  It  is  not 
Angelo.  Can  you  not  see  ?  It  is  one  of  their  own  order 
whom  they  are  mourning.  They  would  not  make  such 
a  lament  over  mere  secular  clay,  I  warrant  you.  Stay 
here,  and  Frank  and  I  will  ascertain  who  it  is.  You 
do  not  mind  being  left  alone  for  a  minute  or  two? 
No  harm  can  happen  to  you.  We  will  not  be  long. 
Come,  Frank."  And  my  uncle  and  I  descended  hastily 
to  the  road. 

As  this  is  a  faithful  autobiography  I  must  not  shrink 
from  recording  my  thoughts  at  this  time.  Full  of  my 
selfish  love  for  Daphne,  I  was  hoping  that  the  dead 
form  carried  by  the  monks  might  be — George.  A 
wicked  wish,  and  one  that  I  was  ashamed  of  the  minute 
after  I  had  entertained  it. 

The  monks  had  ceased  their  singing  for  a  brief 
space,  but  as  they  neared  us  a  fresh  outburst  of  mourn 
ful  harmony  rose  from  them.  It  spread  through  the 
vale  around,  and,  rolling  onward,  echoed  and  re-echoed 

159 


The  Weird  Picture 

from  many  a  distant  cliff,  and,  as  if  refused  a  lodg 
ment  there,  mounted  upward  to  the  midnight  sky: 

"  DIES  IR.E,  DIES  ILLA, 

SOLVET  SPECULUM  IN  FAVILLA." 

The  deep  cowl  that  veiled  the  head  of  each  grey 
brother  gave  a  singular  appearance  to  the  throng,  and 
the  peculiarly  wild  effect  of  their  harmony  was  height 
ened  by  the  solemn  hour  and  the  moonlight. 

"  What  ghostly  looking  figures ! "  I  muttered  to  my 
uncle. 

"  Ay !  Charon  multiplied  by  forty.  How  I  hate  these 
doleful  Gregorians !  Let  us  stop  these  sandalled  friars, 
and  ask — if  indeed  they  will  be  so  condescending  as  to 
tell  us — who  it  is  that  has  received  his  Nunc  Dimittis." 

As  the  train  came  abreast  of  us,  my  uncle  stepped 
forward  and  lifted  his  hat  to  the  monks,  who  at  once 
stopped  both  their  march  and  their  requiem. 

"  Pardon  the  curiosity  of  a  stranger,"  he  said,  ad 
dressing  the  leading  brother :  "  may  we  ask  the  reason 
of  this  midnight  procession  ?  " 

The  monk  regarded  the  questioner  with  a  look 
that  seemed  to  ask  what  business  it  was  of  his ;  but, 
verbally  courteous,  he  replied : 

"  Pax  vobiscum,  mi  fill.  We  mourn  one  who  but  a 
few  hours  ago  was  alive.  Now — sic  est  voluntas 
divina — he  is  no  more." 

"  How  came  he  by  his  death  ?  " 

"  By  falling  from  the  cliff  on  which  our  monastery  is 
built.  The  holy  Virgin — gloria  tibi,  0  sancta  Maria — 
foreshadowed  the  event  this  morning  by  the  fall  of  her 
image  in  the  chapel." 

"  Ah,  the  days  of  Urim  and  Thummim  are  not  past, 
then,"  remarked  my  uncle,  with  a  tinge  of  irony  in  his 


160 


Ghost  or  Mortal? 

tone  unnoticed  by  him  to  whom  he  spoke.  "  Is  the 
dead  man  a  brother  of  your  order  ?  " 

"  An  old  inhabitant  of  Rivoli,  but  a  neophyte  of  two 
days  only.  It  was  but  yesterday  that  the  good  Father 
Ignatius  brought  him  to  us,  bidding  us  receive  him  as 
a  novice.  This  evening  at  vespers  he  quitted  the  con 
vent  unknown  to  us.  He  did  not  return.  At  nocturns 
Brother  Francis  startled  us  by  rushing  in  and  saying 
that  he  had  heard  groans  coming  from  the  foot  of  the 
cliff.  We  descended  to  the  spot.  This  is  what  we 
found." 

With  these  words  the  speaker  drew  back  the  cover 
ing  from  the  bier.  And  there,  calm  and  still  in  death, 
with  glazed  eyes  staring  up  at  the  sky,  as  if  in  reproach 
of  the  cold,  silent  moon  that  had  seen  him  die,  was  the 
face  of  the  silver-haired  old  man,  the  penitent  of 
Father  Ignatius.  My  sudden  exclamation  of  surprise 
drew  all  eyes  upon  me. 

"  Did  you  know  him,  young  sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  him  once  in  England,  and  once  here  in 
the  cathedral  yesterday.  I  know  nothing  of  him,  not 
even  his  name.  Where  are  you  taking  the  body  ?  "  I 
added  after  a  moment's  interval. 

"  To  the  house  of  Father  Ignatius,"  replied  the  lead 
ing  monk,  as  he  motioned  the  cortege  to  proceed. 

"  Stop !  "  cried  my  uncle,  and  at  his  imperative  voice 
the  monks  paused. 

For  some  moments  he  had  been  closely  scrutinising 
the  corpse,  and  now,  pointing  to  it  with  a  stern  look,  he 
said: 

"  There  must  be  an  inquiry  on  the  body,  for  this  man 
did  not  die  by  accident.  He  was  pushed  over  the  cliff. 
See !  these  marks  on  the  throat  were  made  by  a  strong 
hand.  He  has  been  murdered." 

"MURDERED!  "  repeated  forty  voices. 

161 


The  Weird  Picture 

The  bier  was  hastily  set  down.  The  bright  torches 
were  lowered  to  the  level  of  the  dead  man's  face  and, 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  the  monks  crowded 
around  to  look. 

"  O  sancta  Maria,  ora  pro  nobis! " 

The  dark  purple  bruises  on  the  throat,  and  the  frayed 
condition  of  the  clothing  round  it,  were  proofs  too 
strong  to  be  confuted,  of  my  uncle's  statement. 

"  These  marks  may  have  arisen  from  some  other 
cause  than  the  one  you  suggest,"  remarked  the  leading 
monk  in  tones  sweetly  supercilious.  He  seemed  an 
noyed,  probably  because  my  uncle  had  discovered  what 
his  monkish  dulness  had  overlooked. 

The  fingers  of  the  dead  man's  right  hand  were 
tightly  clenched.  My  uncle  proceeded  to  force  them 
open,  and  as  he  did  so  there  fell  to  the  ground  some 
thing  which  when  picked  up  proved  to  be  a  grey  cloth 
button  adhering  to  a  fragment  of  grey  cloth,  and  as 
suredly  not  belonging  to  the  garments  of  the  dead 
man. 

"  This,"  said  my  uncle,  "  has  been  torn  by  the  dead 
man  from  the  clothes  of  him  who  hurled  him  over. 
There  was  evidently  a  struggle.  This  button  must  not 
be  lost.  It  may  be  a  means  of  tracing  the  assassin." 

So,  while  the  pious  monks  had  been  lifting  to  heaven 
their  prayers  and  psalms,  a  death-struggle  had  been 
going  on  under  the  walls  of  their  convent,  perhaps 
within  the  very  sound  of  their  voices.  But  what  mo 
tive  had  prompted  the  deed,  and  whose  was  the  hand 
that  had  so  swiftly  hurled  the  aged  man  into  the  arms 
of  death  ? 

The  sight  of  the  grey  cloth  button — suggestive  of  a 
military  cloak — recalled  to  my  memory  the  figure  that 
Daphne  had  seen  at  the  fountain ;  and  instantly  there 
darted  into  my  mind  a  terrible  suspicion.  The  same 

162 


Ghost  or  Mortal f 

had  occurred  to  my  uncle.  Bending  his  head  over 
to  me,  and  pointing  to  the  corpse,  he  said  in  a  whisper : 

"  Is  this  George's  work  ?  " 

A  warm  breath  on  my  cheek  checked  the  reply  I  was 
about  to  make.  I  turned.  Daphne  was  at  my  side,  her 
hands  raised,  her  eyes  dilated  with  horrer,  and  her 
figure  swaying  like  a  young  sapling  in  the  breeze.  Un- 
perceived  by  myself  or  her  father,  she  had  followed  us 
to  the  road — had  seen  the  dead  man,  the  damnatory 
evidence,  had  caught  her  father's  whispered  words. 
A  scream  such  as  I  shall  never  forget  broke  from  her, 
and  before  I  could  catch  her  in  my  arms  she  had 
dropped  at  my  feet,  a  white  senseless  heap.  Her  voice, 
like  a  death-cry,  rang  over  the  moonlit  valley,  awaken 
ing  countless  echoes  from  the  sleeping  rocks,  and 
mingling  with  the  mournful  refrain  of  the  monks : 

"  REQUIEM  ;ETERNAM 
ET  LUCEM  PERPETUAM 
DONA  MORTUO,  DOMINE  !  " 


163 


CHAPTER  XI 

MORE  OF  THE  PICTURE 

WE  had  not  expected  to  see  Sir  Hugh  Wyville 
until  the  following  Christmas,  which  we 
were  to  spend  as  his  guests  in  Cornwall.  It 
chanced,  however,  that  he  too  was  taking  a  Conti 
nental  tour,  and  joined  our  Rhine  steamer  at  Cologne. 
He  was  delighted  to  see  his  old  schoolfellow,  my  uncle, 
and  arm  in  arm  with  him  paced  the  deck  in  friendly 
converse,  talking  of  the  old  days  at  Eton. 

Daphne's  beauty  made  a  great  impression  upon  the 
Baronet,  and  he  inquired  the  reason  of  the  sad  look  on 
her  face,  a  look  that  had  become  habitual  since  that 
terrible  night  at  Rivoli.  So  my  uncle  related  her  story 
to  him,  finishing  with  an  account  of  the  mysterious 
circumstances  that  had  attended  our  stay  at  Rivoli,  to 
all  of  which  the  Baronet  listened  with  deep  interest. 

"  And  so,"  he  remarked,  when  the  tale  was  ended, 
"  the  enquiry  held  on  the  body  of  the  old  man  led  to  no 
result?" 

"  None,  so  far  as  the  discovery  of  the  assassin  was 
concerned.  All  that  we  learned  was  that  the  old  man's 
name  was  Matteo  Carito ;  that  he  was  a  native  of 
Rivoli,  but  had  been  absent  from  the  town  for  twenty 
years  or  more,  and  that  he  had  returned  to  it  only  three 
days  before  his  death.  It  is  strange  that  he  should 
have  been  struck  down  so  soon  after  reaching  his 
home." 

164 


More  of  the  Picture 

"  The  assassin  had  perhaps  followed  him  there.  And 
so  the  button  proved  no  clue  ?  " 

"  None  at  all." 

"  A  pity,  that.    And  the  priest  you  have  spoken  of  ?  " 

"  Father  Ignatius?  " 

"  Yes.  Was  he  questioned  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
confession  made  to  him  by  the  murdered  man?" 

"  Yes,  but  naturally  he  refused  to  divulge  the  secrets 
of  the  confessional.  He  declared,  however,  it  had  no 
bearing  on  the  crime,  and  could  not  in  any  way  help  to 
wards  the  discovery  of  the  murderer,  and  with  that 
we  had  to  be  content.  Legal  procedure  is  carried  on 
at  Rivoli  in  a  fashion  different  from  what  it  is  in  Eng 
land.  Father  Ignatius  is  the  great  man  of  the  town, 
and  he  would  be  a  bold  magistrate  who  would  dare  to 
question  him  too  closely.  The  reverend  padre  would 
think  nothing  of  excommunicating  him  next  Sunday 
from  the  altar  with  bell,  book,  and  candle,  and  the  peo 
ple  of  Rivoli  would  approve,  so  devoted  are  they  to 
him." 

"  It  is  certainly  a  mysterious  business,"  said  Sir 
Hugh,  "  and  one  more  so  never  came  within  my  ex 
perience.  At  any  rate,  let  us  hope  your  suspicions  are 
unfounded,  and  that  Captain  Willard  was  not  at  Rivoli 
as  you  suppose." 

"  Remember,  Leslie,"  he  said  a  day  or  two  later, 
"  you  are  not  to  spend  Christmas  at  your  London 
house.  The  place  and  the  time  of  the  year  would 
only  serve  to  recall  your  daughter's  grief  on  the  very 
day  when  she  should  be  most  happy.  You  must  come 
to  the  Abbey  and  help  me  to  burn  the  Yule  log.  There 
will  be  more  than  fifty  guests,  so  you  will  hardly 
be  dull.  My  niece,  Florrie,  will  be  just  the  companion 
for  Miss  Daphne,  so  you  must  make  no  excuses." 

And  he  parted  from  us  at  Cologne  on  the  under- 

165 


The  Weird  Picture 

standing  that  we  were  to  pass  our  Christmas-tide  at 
Silverdale  Abbey. 

Once  removed  from  Rivoli  and  its  weird  associations 
Daphne  rapidly  recovered  her  health  and  spirits,  and 
we  spent  the  summer  exploring  the  beauties  of  the 
Rhineland. 

When  we  returned  to  London,  my  first  care  was  to 
obtain  a  copy  of  the  Standard  of  July  the  2nd,  and  I 
turned  eagerly  to  the  remainder  of  the  article  relating 
to  Vasari's  picture,  and  found  the  passage  referring  to 
the  Anglo-Indian  office  to  be  as  follows : — 

"  Mr.  Vasari's  explanation  of  his  success  is  to  the 
effect  that  he  has  rediscovered  a  secret  known  only  to 
the  ancient  Greek  artists,  a  statement  that  must  be 
taken  with  a  grain  of  salt.  A  few  days  ago  a  strange 
incident  happened  in  connection  with  the  picture.  A 
gentleman  in  uniform — an  Anglo-Indian  officer,  to 
judge  by  a  description  given  of  him — who  had  paid 
the  fee  for  admission,  was  proceeding  leisurely  along 
the  gallery,  and  had  arrived  at  the  room  containing 
the  masterpiece,  when  his  further  progress  was  barred 
by  Vasari,  who  would  not  allow  him  to  enter,  but  in  an 
authoritative  voice  ordered  him  to  withdraw,  without, 
however,  assigning  any  reason  for  this  behaviour. 
The  officer  declined  to  withdraw,  and  an  altercation 
ensued  between  him  and  the  artist.  When  at  Vasari's 
order  the  attendants  prepared  to  remove  the  officer 
the  latter  drew  his  sword,  but  the  timely  intervention 
of  the  gendarmes  prevented  serious  consequences.  The 
gentleman,  whose  name  we  are  unable  to  give,  was 
ejected  and  his  money  returned.  It  is  said  that  he 
intends  to  take  legal  proceedings  against  the  artist. 
A  curious  point  of  law  will  thus  be  raised:  Whether 
the  proprietor  of  a  gallery  open  to  the  public  has  a 
right,  on  purely  personal  grounds,  to  refuse  admission 

166 


More  of  the  Picture 

to  whomsoever  he  will?  In  an  interview  with  a  re 
porter,  Vasari  stated  that  the  officer  in  question  was 
drunk,  that  he  was  hostilely  disposed  towards  the 
artist,  and  that  he  had  sworn  to  destroy  the  famous 
picture  with  his  sword.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is 
alleged  that  the  officer  was  quiet  and  sober,  and  that 
he  contemplated  no  such  act  of  vandalism." 

That  was  all  concerning  the  Anglo-Indian  officer, 
and  what  Angelo's  real  reason  was  for  withholding 
the  picture  from  the  eyes  of  this  man,  and  why  he  had 
been  desirous  of  concealing  this  part  "of  the  critique 
from  me,  were  insoluble  questions  adding  fresh  ele 
ments  to  the  atmosphere  of  mystery  in  which  it  seemed 
his  delight  to  walk. 

I  determined  to  have  an  interview  with  the  Italian 
for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  a  little  light  on  the  matter. 
I  was  anxious,  also,  to  question  him  on  another  point 
— namely,  the  whereabouts  of  my  brother.  George 
had  evidently  been  living  in  seclusion  at  Rivoli,  and 
Angelo  must  have  been  aware  of  the  fact,  otherwise 
his  words  to  Daphne  on  parting  from  her — "  You  are 
nearer  to  him  now  than  you  have  been  for  months  " — 
would  have  had  no  meaning.  So  I  called  at  the  artist's 
London  residence,  but  was  told  by  his  servant  that  he 
was  in  some  distant  part  of  the  country,  engaged  in  the 
production  of  a  picture  which  it  was  confidently 
affirmed  would  be  superior  even  to  "  The  Fall  of 
Caesar." 

Then  I  took  a  hasty  trip  to  Paris,  to  the  Rue  de 
Sevres,  to  find,  as  I  had  expected,  that  the  Vasari 
Gallery  no  longer  existed.  I  visited  the  offices  of  the 
Temps,  the  Gaulois,  and  other  newspapers,  and  studied 
whole  files  of  journals  in  order  to  learn  the  details  of 
the  law-suit  between  Vasari  and  the  officer,  but  could 


167 


The  Weird  Picture 

discover  no  mention  of  it.     I  found  on  enquiry  at  the 
law  courts  that  the  case  had  never  been  brought. 

Next  I  tried  to  discover  the  destination  of  the 
famous  picture,  and  learned  that  it  had  not  been  dis 
posed  of  at  public  auction,  but  that  the  sale  had  been 
effected  privately  between  the  artist  and  the  purchaser. 
No  one  could  give  me  the  name  of  the  latter,  and  so, 
completely  baffled,  I  returned  to  England,  to  find  that 
Vasari  was  still  away  from  town  in  some  distant  place, 
of  which  his  servant  either  could  not  or  would  not  tell 
rne  the  name. 

December  came,  and  on  the  day  before  Christmas 
Eve  Daphne,  her  father  and  myself  were  established  at 
Silverdale  Abbey,  a  fine  castellated  building  mantled 
all  over  with  ivy,  and  embosomed  within  a  spacious 
and  well  wooded  park.  There  was  already  a  goodly 
company  of  guests  present,  which  was  expected  to 
double  its  number  on  the  morrow. 

In  the  temporary  absence  of  the  Baronet  we  were 
received  by  his  niece,  Florrie  Wyville,  and  spent  a 
delightful  time  as  she  led  us  through  the  many  tapes 
tried  rooms  full  of  curious  old  furniture,  down  carved 
oak  staircases  lighted  by  ecclesiastical-looking  case 
ments  of  stained  glass,  along  broad  halls  adorned  with 
stags'  antlers  and  suits  of  armour,  out  on  to  stone 
terraces  grey  with  age  and  dark  with  ivy. 

"  Isn't  it  a  dear  old  place  ? "  she  exclaimed  en 
thusiastically  when  our  first  tour  of  exploration  was 
over.  "  I  have  been  here  only  a  week,  and  yet  I  be 
lieve  I  know  more  about  it  even  than  Uncle  Hugh 
knows.  It  is  more  than  six  hundred  years  old,  and 
was  originally  a  nunnery." 

"  And  why  is  it  called  Silverdale  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  There  was  a  silver  mine  here  at  one  time.     I  be- 

168 


More  of  the  Picture 

lieve  part  of  the  Abbey  stands  over  an  air  shaft  belong 
ing  to  it ;  and  in  olden  days  nuns  who  broke  their  vows 
were  thrown  down  it." 

"  How  horrible,"  said  Daphne  with  a  shudder. 

"  Not  so  horrible  as  walling  them  up  alive  like  that 
poor  thing  in  Marmion"  Florrie  replied,  jealous  for 
the  good  repute  of  her  beloved  Abbey. 

"  Does  the  shaft  still  exist  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  think  so,  but  the  passage  leading  to  it  was 
bricked  up  years  ago.  I  lay  awake  last  night  think 
ing  of  those  old  days,  and  fancying  I  could  hear  a 
ghostly  procession  of  nuns  rustling  along  the  hall  and 

chanting Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Miss  Leslie? 

you  look  quite  scared." 

I  diverted  the  conversation  to  more  cheerful  topics, 
and  soon  the  girls  were  discussing  what  characters 
they  should  assume  in  the  fancy  dress  ball  to  be  held 
at  Silverdale  on  Twelfth-night. 

The  Baronet  was  justly  proud  cf  his  beautiful  home, 
and  when,  late  that  night,  after  trie  retiring  of  the 
guests,  we  were  smoking  in  the  library,  he  listened 
with  evident  pleasure  to  my  congratulations  on  its  per 
fect  preservation  unspoiled  from  the  middle  ages. 

"  You  must  see  the  picture-gallery  to-morrow,"  he 
said.  "  That  is  the  real  gem  of  the  place.  But  as  you 
take  such  an  interest  in  the  Abbey  and  its  antiquities, 
this  book  may  interest  you."  He  found  a  key  and  un 
locked  a  bookcase.  "  It  is  a  complete  history  of  the 
Abbey  from  its  foundation  to  the  present  time.  It  has 
never  been  published.  My  brother  had  it  drawn  up 
by  a  first-rate  antiquary.  I  haven't  had  time  to  read  it 
properly  yet.  Why,  how's  this?  The  book  is  gone." 

"  Some  other  guest  who  takes  the  same  interest  in 
the  Abbey  that  I  do,"  I  suggested,  "  has  borrowed  the 
book  and  forgotten  to  return  it." 

169 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  Impossible,"  Sir  Hugh  replied.  "  This  bookcase 
is  kept  locked,  and  I  always  carry  the  key." 

"  Was  that  the  only  copy  of  the  book  ? "  my  uncle 
asked. 

"  The  only  copy.  It  was  in  manuscript,  but  the 
leaves  were  bound  like  an  ordinary  book.  If  the  book 
be  gone  the  loss  is  irreparable." 

"  When  did  you  see  it  last?  " 

"  About  a  month  ago,  I  should  say.  Its  usual  place 
is  there,  third  from  the  end  on  the  top  shelf.  Whoever 
took  it  away  did  not  wish  its  removal  to  be  noticed,  for 
he " 

"  Or  she,"  I  murmured,  thinking  of  Florrie's  enthu 
siasm  over  the  Abbey. 

"  Or  she  has  filled  up  the  gap  with  a  book  identical 
in  colour  and  binding,  so  that  I  thought  at  first  it  was 
the  very  book.  Athanasii  Opera"  he  muttered  con 
temptuously,  scanning  the  title  of  the  substituted  vol 
ume.  "  Confound  Athanasius." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  and  his  creed  too,"  said  my 
uncle  cheerfully.  "  But  I  have  no  doubt  the  other, 
more  valuable,  book  will  turn  up  all  right  soon." 

"  I  sincerely  hope  it  will,"  Sir  Hugh  replied,  scruti 
nising  every  part  of  the  bookcase  as  if  he  thought  the 
volume  were  deliberately  hiding  from  him.  "  At  any 
rate,  it  isn't  here  now,"  and  giving  up  the  search  in 
disgust  he  walked  to  the  fireplace  and  flung  himself 
into  a  chair,  looking  exceedingly  annoyed.  "  It  looks 
like  a  case  of  theft,  but  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see 
why  a  thief  should  choose  that  particular  book.  He 
would  only  give  himself  away  if  he  tried  to  make 
money  by  selling  it.  No  one  in  the  Abbey  would  have 
taken  it ;  people  don't  pick  locks  to  get  what  they  have 
only  to  ask  for,  and  every  one  here  knows  I  have  no 
objection  to  lending  my  books."  And  for  some  time 

170 


More  of  the  Picture 

he  smoked  in  moody  silence,  uninterrupted  by  any 
remark  from  us. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said  presently,  "  I  shall  shortly 
have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you  to  a  genius.  I'm 
waiting  up  for  him  now.  He  is  coming  by  the  last 
train." 

"  Who  is  the  genius  ?  "  my  uncle  inquired  with  a 
smile. 

"  That  Italian  artist  whose  picture  '  The  Fall  of 
Caesar '  made  such  a  sensation  in  Paris  last  spring." 

I  was  so  surprised  that  I  knocked  over  a  branched 
candlestick  by  my  side  and  nearly  set  the  tablecloth  on 
fire. 

"  You  must  have  heard  of  him,"  said  Sir  Hugh, 
carefully  replacing  the  candlestick. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  have  heard  of  him,"  said  my  uncle, 
looking  at  me. 

Sir  Hugh  did  not  appear  to  notice  the  meaning  way 
in  which  my  uncle  spoke. 

"  He  is  spending  Christmas  here,"  said  Sir  Hugh. 
"  In  fact  he  has  been  living  at  the  Abbey  for  the  last 
two  months.  He  went  to  London  this  week  to  get 
some  artistic  material.  He  is  painting  a  picture  for 
me." 

"  What  is  the  subject?  "  my  uncle  asked. 

"  I  left  that  to  him,"  Sir  Hugh  answered.  "  Artists 
naturally  prefer  not  to  be  fettered  in  matters  of  that 
sort,  and  they  always  do  best  what  they  like  best.  But 
he  calls  this  new  picture " 

" '  Modesta,  the  Christian  Martyr,'  "  I  interrupted. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  Hugh  surprised.  "  How  on  earth 
did  you  know  ?  I  was  not  aware  that  he  had  told  any 
one  but  me." 

"  He  told  me  himself,"  I  explained.  "  We  are 
friends  of  his.  At  least  we  met  him  at  Rivoli  last  sum- 

171 


The  Weird  Picture 

mer,  and  he  told  us  he  had  a  commission  for  a  picture 
with  leave  to  choose  his  own  subject.  You  must  be 
the  man  who  gave  him  the  commission  he  was  re 
ferring  to." 

"  So  you  know  him?  "  said  the  Baronet  regretfully. 
"  I  am  disappointed.  I  thought  I  had  a  pleasure  in 
store  for  you,  and  I  am  forestalled.  Yes ;  that's  it. 
'  Modesta,  the  Christian  Martyr/  is  to  be  the  picture 
of  the  year.  He  stipulated  that  he  should  exhibit  it 
before  finally  handing  it  over  to  me,  and  of  course  I 
was  quite  agreeable." 

"  It  was  politic  too,"  my  uncle  remarked.  "  A  man 
will  take  more  pains  over  a  picture  that  all  the  critics 
will  see  than  over  one  that  will  go  straight  into  a 
private  collection." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  true,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  "  though 
Vasari  is  not  the  man  to  scamp  his  work.  I  have  fitted 
up  a  studio  for  him  in  the  Nuns'  Tower,  that  grey 
tower  connected  with  the  east  wing  of  the  Abbey  by 
a  cloister.  It's  a  lonely  sort  of  place,  but  he  seems  to 
prefer  it  to  any  other  room  in  the  Abbey,  and  he 
certainly  is  free  from  interruption  there." 

"  Well,  I  hope  for  your  sake  the  picture  will  be  a 
success,"  said  my  uncle,  suggesting  that  he  did  not  care 
at  all  how  it  might  affect  the  artist's  career.  "  Do  you 
think  it  will  equal  his  last  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say.  I  haven't  seen  it."  Then,  noticing  our 
surprise,  Sir  Hugh  explained.  "  You  see  his  studio  is 
a  sort  of  holy  shrine  into  which  only  the  high  priest  of 
art  is  allowed  to  enter.  The  door  is  closed  to  every  one 
— even  to  me."  The  pomposity  with  which  the  good 
Baronet  emphasised  the  last  word  was  immense. 

"  Well  it  is  contrary  to  his  usual  practice,"  my  uncle 
said  drily.  "  We  haven't  found  him  backward  in  talk 
ing  about  his  work,  have  we,  Frank?  " 

172 


More  of  the  Picture 

"  I  don't  think  modesty  is  a  disease  with  him,"  I 
admitted.  "  Do  you  know  whether  he  was  as  secretive 
about  his  '  Fall  of  Caesar '  before  he  sprung  it  on  an 
admiring  world  ?  " 

"  I  believe  he  was.  Permitted  none  to  enter  his 
studio  till  the  work  was  finished.  He  claims  to  have 
rediscovered  a  secret  known  to  the  great  artists  of 
classical  times,  and  does  not  want  to  reveal  it  to  con 
temporary  rivals.  Between  ourselves,  I  don't  believe 
there  is  any  mystery  about  it,  but  it  suits  his  purpose 
to  pretend  there  is.  Our  friend  knows  something 
about  human  nature,  and  to  throw  a  veil  of  secrecy 
round  your  work  while  you  are  doing  it  is  quite  good 
business,  provided,  of  course,  the  work  is  good  when 
finished.  Let  me  see,  you  were  in  Paris  last  spring. 
Of  course  you  saw  the  great  picture?  " 

"  No,  we  haven't  seen  it,"  my  uncle  replied.  "  Have 
you?" 

"  Have  I  ? "  said  the  Baronet,  looking  as  much 
astonished  as  if  he  had  been  asked  whether  he  knew  the 
alphabet.  "  My  dear  fellow,  what  are  you  talking 
about  ?  Don't  you  know  the  picture  is  here  ?  " 

"Here?"  was  the  simultaneous  ejaculation  of  my 
uncle  and  myself. 

"  Here.     In  this  house.     In  my  gallery." 

That  which  eludes  the  most  painstaking  search  is 
often  revealed  by  mere  accident.  Without  any 
design  on  our  part,  we  were  at  length  within  measur 
able  distance  of  seeing  that  which  we  had  been  vainly 
trying  to  see — to  wit,  Angelo's  famous  picture. 

"  Did  you  buy  it  from  the  Baron  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  Baron  ?  What  Baron  ?  I  don't  understand 
you.  I  saw  the  picture  last  summer  in  Paris,  was 
struck  with  it  like  everybody  else,  and  offered  Angelo 
£4,000  for  it." 

173 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  Which  offer  he  accepted  ?  "  said  my  uncle. 

"  Which  offer  he  accepted — after  a  delay  of  a  day 
or  two." 

"  You  purchased  it  direct  from  Angelo  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Direct." 

"Strange!" 

"  What  is  there  so  strange  in  the  transaction  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  said,  "  that  when  we  saw  Angelo 
at  Rivoli,  and  expressed  a  desire — or,  to  be  more  cor 
rect,  when  Daphne  expressed  a  desire  to  see  his 
picture,  he  told  her  it  was  impossible — he  had  sold  it  to 
some  Spanish  hidalgo." 

"  He  must  have  been  dreaming,  then,"  returned  Sir 
Hugh.  "  I  was  the  first  purchaser  and  the  last." 

"  What  could  have  induced  him  to  tell  such  a  false 
hood?"  I  said. 

"  Do  not  say  falsehood,"  replied  the  Baronet ;  "  say 
error  of  memory,  rather.  He  was  thinking  of  some 
other  picture,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  No,  '  The  Death  of  Caesar ; '  that  was  the  work  he 
referred  to,  I  am  certain." 

"  Perhaps  he  confounded  me  with  some  intending 
purchaser.  Why  he  should  wish  to  conceal  the  destina 
tion  of  his  picture  from  you  I  cannot  tell.  But  there, 
he's  a  curious  fellow,"  muttered  the  Baronet  thought 
fully.  "  Genius  always  is  eccentric,  I  suppose.  He 
will  stand  for  hours,  I  am  told,  on  the  cliffs,  solitary 
and  melancholy,  watching  the  Atlantic  breakers  and 
soliloquising  like  a  second  Manfred.  If  I  didn't  know 
that  art  was  his  only  mistress,  I  should  fancy  he  was  in 
love." 

"  Your  fancy  is  not  far  removed  from  the  truth,"  I 
murmured  to  myself.  "  When  you  were  at  Paris,"  I 
asked,  "  did  you  hear  anything  of  a  fracas  between 


174 


More  of  the  Picture 

Angelo  and  a  military  officer  in  connection  with  this 
picture?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  the  affair  very  well." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  officer?  " 

"  No ;  he  was  never  heard  of  again.  I  think  he  re 
ceived  an  order  that  very  day  to  rejoin  his  regiment. 
It  was  that  fracas,  I  believe,  that  led  to  my  becoming 
the  possessor  of  the  picture." 

"  How  was  that  ?  " 

"  I  had  offered  Angelo  £4,000  for  it,  which  he  re 
fused.  He  could  gain  more  by  exhibiting  it,  he  said. 
However,  after  this  affair  with  the  officer,  he  came  of 
his  own  accord  to  me  and  tendered  it  at  the  price  I  had 
named.  He  explained  his  change  of  mind  by  what 
seemed  to  me  an  absurd  statement.  A  clique  of  artists, 
jealous  of  his  success,  had  vowed  to  destroy  his  picture. 
He  resolved  to  exhibit  it  no  more  publicly.  He  thought 
it  would  be  safer  in  some  private  collection  and  he  stip 
ulated  that  I  must  allow  him  to  have  a  sight  now  and 
again  of  his  beloved  masterpiece.  I  put  all  this  down 
to  morbid  vanity,  but,  of  course,  I  professed  to  believe 
him  and  sympathised  with  him,  very  glad  to  obtain  the 
picture  on  any  terms." 

The  Baronet's  butler,  who  had  entered  a  few  min 
utes  previously  to  ask  whether  we  wanted  any  more 
wine,  and  was  lingering  about  under  pretence  of 
smoothing  the  cloth  and  of  arranging  the  decanters, 
now  joined  in  the  conversation  with  the  freedom  of 
an  old  and  faithful  servant. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Hugh,  but  are  you  talking 
of  Mr.  Vasari's  picture?" 

"  That  is  exactly  what  we  are  doing,  Fruin." 

The  white-haired  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Why,  what  have  you  got  to  say  about  it  Fruin?  " 
asked  his  master  with  considerable  surprise. 

175 


The  Weird  Picture 

The  old  servant  shook  his  head  once  more. 

"  You  hate  ghost  stories,  Sir  Hugh.  That's  why 
I've  never  spoken  to  you  about  these  goings  on." 

"  These  goings  on !  Heavens  !  what's  the  man  talk 
ing  about?  Let's  have  your  ghost  story,  Fruin,  and 
I'll  suspend  my  criticism  and  laughter  till — you  are  out 
of  the  room,"  he  added  aside. 

"  There's  something  very  queer  about  that  picture." 

This  was  my  opinion  too,  and  I  listened  with  breath 
less  interest  to  the  butler's  words. 

"  My  bedroom — as  you  know,  Sir  Hugh — is  over 
one  end  of  the  gallery,  and  ever  since  that  picture  of 
Mr.  Vasari's  was  put  into  it  I  have  heard  at  night 
sounds  as  if  some  one  were  walking  to  and  fro  there, 
and  faint  cries  now  and  then.  Before  going  to  bed  I 
always  lock  the  doors  at  both  ends  of  the  gallery,  and 
take  the  keys  with  me,  so  that  how  any  one  can  get  in 
at  night  is  a  puzzle.  I  have  come  down  alone  several 
times  to  see  who  was  there."  Fruin  was  not  a  timid 
character,  if  his  own  statement  were  to  be  received  as 
evidence.  "  I  always  come  with  a  lamp  and  a  loaded 
pistol,"  he  added,  causing  me  to  modify  my  opinion  of 
his  valour.  "  And  on  opening  the  door  the  sounds  al 
ways  cease  and  the  place  is  always  empty." 

"  A  clear  proof,"  replied  Sir  Hugh,  "  that  no  one  nad 
been  in  the  gallery,  and  that  the  sounds,  caused  by  the 
wind  probably,  must  have  proceeded  from  some  other 
quarter." 

Fruin's  air  implied  that  he  was  not  going  to  be  im 
posed  upon  by  this  explanation. 

"  You  hear  cries?  "  said  I.    "  What  sort  of  cries?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you  exactly,  sir,  for  I  am  never  near 
enough  to  hear.  Faint  die-away  sounds  they  are,  like 
a  mother  crooning  her  babe  to  sleep." 

"  Granting,  what  I   don't   for   one  moment  admit, 

176 


More  of  the  Picture 

that  the  sounds  come  from  the  gallery,  what  have  they 
got  to  do  with  Mr.  Vasari's  picture  ?  "  the  Baronet 
asked. 

"  I  have  been  butler  in  this  house  for  twenty  years, 
Sir  Hugh,"  said  the  old  fellow  gravely  and  respect 
fully,  "  and  there  were  never  such  sounds  in  the 
gallery  until  that  picture  came  here." 

"  Do  you  hear  them  every  night  ? "  my  uncle 
asked. 

"  Oh  no,  sir,  only  at  intervals.  They  may  occur  for 
two  or  three  nights  running,  and  then  perhaps  they 
won't  be  heard  for  a  week." 

"  Well,"  said  Sir  Hugh  testily,  "  since  you  are  sure 
the  sounds  are  real  and  that  they  do  come  from  the 
gallery,  give  us  your  explanation  of  them,  that  is,  if 
you  have  any  to  give." 

"  It  isn't  what  you  might  call  an  explanation,"  said 
the  butler,  who  maintained  a  quiet  but  firm  manner 
throughout,  "  but  I  can  tell  you  a  little  more.  One 
evening  last  week  I  was  passing  along  the  gravel-path 
outside  the  gallery  windows,  when  I  chanced  to  look 
up,  and  there,  staring  at  me  through  the  panes,  was  a 
face.  Though  it  was  dusk  at  the  time,  there  was  light 
enough  to  see  every  feature  of  it,  and  I  will  swear  that 
it  was  the  same  face  as  in  the  picture." 

"  What  did  you  do  when  you  saw  it  ?  " 

"  I  went  close  up  to  the  window." 

"And  then?" 

"  It  wasn't  there." 

"  And  you  heard  no  sound  from  within  ?  " 

"  Not  a  sound.  I  came  into  the  Abbey  at  once, 
taking  Brown  with  me,  and  found  both  doors  of  the 
gallery  locked.  We  searched  the  gallery,  but  found  no 
one  in  it." 

"  Did   you   examine  the   picture,   Fruin,"   said  the 

177 


The  Weird  Picture 

Baronet,  "  to  see  whether  Imperial  Csesar  exhibited 
any  traces  of  having  lately  walked  out  of  the  canvas  ?  " 

"  I  did  examine  the  picture,  Sir  Hugh,  and  I  am 
certain  it  had  been  disturbed,  for  I  will  swear  that  it 
was  not  hanging  at  the  same  angle  as  it  had  been  in 
the  morning." 

"Csesar  didn't  speak,  I  presume,  and  ask  you  how 
you  were?  " 

But  the  butler,  whose  air  of  quiet  and  sober  dignity 
almost  atoned  for  the  absurdity  of  the  story,  was  not 
to  be  moved  by  his  master's  gibes. 

"  Don't  you  think  it  was  fancy  on  your  part, 
Fruin  ?  "  said  I.  "  Just  think  how  impossible  it  is  for 
a  figure  painted  on  canvas  to  move  from  its  frame 
and  peer  through  a  casement !  " 

"  What  I  saw  on  the  other  side  of  the  window  was  a 
real  thing,"  replied  the  butler  firmly.  "  It  was  the  very 
face  in  the  picture,  and  so  would  you  say  had  you  been 
there  to  see  it." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  we  had !  "  said  Sir  Hugh. 
"  Well,  well !  you  may  go,  Fruin,  unless  Mr.  Leslie  or 
Mr.  Willard  wishes  to  ask  you  any  more  questions." 

We  had  no  more  to  put,  and  when  the  butler  had 
withdrawn,  I  asked  the  Baronet  his  opinion  of  the 
story. 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  my  dear  boy !  Outside  the  pale  of 
serious  discussion.  I  must  have  stronger  evidence 
than  the  solitary  testimony  of  a  superstitious  and  dim- 
sighted  old  servant,  who  in  the  twilight  mistakes 
some  shadow  across  the  stained  panes  for  an  ap 
parition." 

And  he  waved  his  hand  with  a  deprecatory  gesture, 
as  if  wishing  to  hear  no  more  of  the  absurd  business. 

I  was  silent  for  a  time,  reflecting  on  the  story  I 
had  just  heard.  If  it  had  stood  alone — had  been  the 

178 


More  of  the  Picture 

sole  remarkable  thing  related  of  the  picture — it  would 
not  have  been  entitled  to  consideration ;  but  so  many 
strange  things  had  occurred  in  connexion  with 
Angelo's  masterpiece  that  I  hesitated  before  pro 
nouncing  Fruin's  narration  to  be  a  fable,  destitute  of 
any  foundation  whatever.  Though  at  present  the 
affair  seemed  coloured  by  the  supernatural,  it  might 
have  a  groundwork  of  fact  to  rest  upon. 

"  Well,  Sir  Hugh,"  remarked  my  uncle,  "  we  must 
certainly  view  this  mysterious  picture  in  the  morning." 

"  Why  not  now  ?  "  I  said,  jumping  to  my  feet.  "  Let 
us  see  it  to-night.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  sleep  if  I  go 
to  bed  without  seeing  it." 

But  the  Baronet  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a 
good-humoured  smile. 

"  No,  thank  you.  We  are  warm  and  comfortable 
here.  A  walk  in  a  cold  picture-gallery  by  the  pale  light 
of  the  moon  is  an  affront  to  these  cigars  and  this  port. 
Let  us  defer  our  visit  till  the  morning." 

I  was  loth  to  wait  till  then.  The  picture  had  eluded 
us  so  long  that  I  thought  it  quite  within  the  range  of 
probability  for  it  to  walk  off  during  the  night. 

"  Did  Angelo  ever  speak  to  you  of  his  stay  at 
Rivoli  ?  "  said  I  to  the  Baronet. 

"  Never  knew  he  had  been  there  till  you  mentioned 
it." 

"  He's  a  native  of  the  place.  He  never  told  you, 
then,  of  a  little  incident  that  happened  in  the  cathedral 
of  Rivoli?" 

"  You  are  talking  Greek  to  me — at  least,  that  is," 
coughed  the  Baronet,  reserving  to  himself  the  credit  of 
a  classical  reputation,  "  er — Chinese,  I  should  say. 
What  is  the  little  incident  to  which  you  refer  ?  " 

I  satisfied  Sir  Hugh's  curiosity  by  giving  him  an 
account  of  Angelo's  expulsion  from  the  Communion. 

179 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  Did  you  not  ask  him  the  cause  of  it  ?  "  inquired 
he. 

"  We  have  never  seen  him  from  that  day  to  this," 
I  replied. 

"  Humph !  "  remarked  the  Baronet  gravely.  "  Ex 
pelled  from  the  Sacrament,  was  he  ?  I  don't  like  that, 
you  know :  it  looks  bad.  I  wish  I  had  known  this  be 
fore  I  asked  him  to  spend  his  Christmas  here.  Of 
course,  for  aught  we  know  to  the  contrary,  he  may 
only  have  been  guilty  of  some  little  trifle  which  we 
men  of  the  world  " — he  swept  his  arm  towards  me  as 
he  spoke,  and  I  felt  quite  proud  of  the  title  conferred 
on  me — "  think  nothing  of ;  but  still  it  looks  suspicious. 
A  shade  rests  on  his  character,  and  till  it  be  cleared  off 
I  would  prefer  him  at  any  other  table  than  mine.  I 
ought  to  be  certain  that  he  is  a  person  of  fair  repute — 
that  is  a  duty  I  owe  my  guests ;  but  I  don't  see  what  I 
can  do  now  that  matters  have  gone  so  far.  I  cannot,  in 
the  circumstances,  ask  him  point-blank  to  produce  a 
certificate  of  good  character,  so  I  must  display  the  hos 
pitality  of  the  Orientals,  and  entertain  the  guest  with 
out  inquiring  too  closely  into  his  character." 

'  For  thereby,'  "  quoted   my  uncle,  "  '  some  have 
entertained  angels  unawares.' ' 

"  You  are  not  very  likely  to  do  that,"  I  said  to  the 
Baronet,  "  and—" 

The  sound  of  carriage-wheels  rattling  over  the 
gravel-path  beneath  the  library  windows  checked  the 
rest  of  my  remark. 

"  That  must  be  Angelo,"  said  the  Baronet,  referring 
to  his  watch. 

"  Talk  of  Lucifer,"  said  I,  rising,  "  and  he  rustles 
his  wings.  With  your  leave,  Sir  Hugh,  I'll  retire  for 
the  night.  I've  no  wish  to  see  Angelo  till  the  morn 
ing."  And  with  these  words  I  departed,  leaving  the 

180 


More  of  the  Picture 

representative  of  the  Wyvilles  and  the  head  of  the 
house  of  Leslie  to  welcome,  perhaps  it  would  be  more 
correct  to  write  receive,  the  late  comer. 

The  bedroom  allotted  to  me  was,  like  those  of  the 
other  guests,  in  the  eastern  wing  of  the  Abbey,  the 
western  wing  being  appropriated  to  the  servants'  quar 
ters.  The  front  and  central  portions  of  the  building 
contained  the  principal  apartments ;  and  the  picture- 
gallery  was  at  the  rear  on  the  ground-floor,  connect 
ing  the  two  wings. 

My  room  was  a  large  old-fashioned  chamber,  whose 
oaken  panels  were  draped  with  figured  tapestry.  An 
oriel  casement  with  lancet-shaped  panes  of  stained- 
glass  gave  me  a  fine  view  of  the  moonlit  .park,  with 
the  Nuns'  Tower — Angelo's  studio — rising  grey  and 
solitary  above  a  dark  clump  of  cedars. 

There  was  a  fire  in  the  grate  and  its  dancing  caused 
strange  shadows  to  quiver  upon  the  walls  and  ceiling, 
seeming  to  invest  the  grim  figures  on  the  tapestry 
with  life  and  motion — an  illusion  heightened  by  their 
rustling  with  the  draught  from  the  open  door. 

The  supernatural  element  introduced  into  my  mind 
by  the  butler's  story  played  the  wildest  tricks  with  my 
imagination,  reducing  me  to  so  tense  a  state  of  nerv 
ousness  that  I  almost  hesitated  to  look  around,  lest 
some  eerie  shape  should  meet  my  gaze.  The  sight  of 
my  face  in  the  glass  mirror  so  startled  me  that  I 
turned  the  mirror  round  to  the  wall,  in  order  that  I 
might  not  be  compelled  to  contemplate  my  own  re 
flection,  to  which  I  felt  attracted,  not  from  vanity,  but 
from  a  weird  fascination  that  made  me  think  it  was 
another  person  in  the  room  mimicking  my  movements. 
The  brass  knob  of  the  door,  too,  was  a  source  of 
annoyance,  till  I  hung  my  handkerchief  over  it — it 

181 


The  Weird  Picture 

looked  so  like  a  gleaming  eye.  And  when  I  had  thus 
absurdly  disposed  of  its  glitter,  I  discovered  many 
other  eyes  staring  at  me  with  maddening  persistency 
from  different  parts  of  the  room. 

Anxious  to  chase  away  if  possible  the  morbid 
fancies  that  were  fast  crowding  into  my  mind  and 
threatening  to  render  my  sleep  the  reverse  of  pleas 
ant,  I  looked  around  for  some  book  to  divert  my 
thoughts,  and,  suddenly  remembering  that  at  the  bot 
tom  of  my  trunk  was  a  volume  of  Pickwick,  I  drew  it 
forth,  and,  having  raked  up  the  fire  into  a  cheerful 
blaze,  was  soon  laughing  heartily  over  the  drolleries  of 
that  immortal  work. 

How  long  I  continued  turning  over  page  after  page 
I  cannot  tell ;  my  reading  was  brought  to  a  sudden  stop 
by  a  scream  which  rang  long,  loud,  and  piercing 
through  the  corridors  of  the  Abbey.  I  flung  down 
Pickwick  and  darted  to  the  door  to  listen.  The  scream 
was  repeated,  and  I  recognized  Daphne's  voice. 

"Oh,  Frank,  Frank!" 

Even  in  the  excitement  of  that  terrible  moment  a 
feeling  of  pleasure  came  over  me.  Why  should 
Daphne,  in  her  fear,  call  upon  my  name,  unless  I  were 
the  first  person  in  her  thoughts? 

There  was  an  ancient-looking  sword  hanging  over 
the  fireplace,  and  I  took  it  down  and  rushed  along  the 
corridor  in  the  direction  of  Daphne's  voice. 

Coming  to  the  room  which  I  knew  to  be  hers,  I 
dashed  open  the  door,  and  saw  Daphne  sitting  erect  in 
bed,  her  eyes  staring  wildly  around,  her  face  and 
manner  expressive  of  the  extremity  of  terror.  I  at 
once  ran  to  the  bedside. 

"  Oh,  Frank,  don't  leave  me,  don't  leave  me  till  some 
one  comes !  " 

She  followed  up  this  appeal  by  a  flood  of  tears,  and 

182 


More  of  the  Picture 

clung  tightly  to  my  arm  with  both  her  hands,  while 
staring  about  her  on  all  sides. 

"  Why,  Daphne,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  There's  something  in  the  room."  She  paused,  and 
looked  fearfully  around  her.  "  I  don't  know  what.  A 
black  shape — a  shadow.  It  was  bending  over  me." 

I  cast  a  glance  over  the  room,  but  nothing  unusual 
met  my  eye,  and  I  concluded  she  had  been  dreaming. 

"  You  are  dreaming,  Daphne.  Do  not  cry  so.  There 
is  no  one  here  but  you  and  me." 

"  Yes,  yes,  there  is  !  " 

All  the  guests,  roused  by  the  screams,  had  risen  from 
their  slumbers,  and  in  various  stages  of  dressing  were 
thronging  around  the  open  door,  becoming  round- 
eyed  as  they  took  in  the  character  of  the  scene. 

"  Heyday !  what's  the  matter  here  ?  "  exclaimed  my 
uncle,  entering  at  this  juncture ;  and  all  the  rest,  imi 
tating  his  example,  entered  too. 

"  I  came  because  I  heard  Daphne  calling  for  help," 
I  replied. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  said  Daphne,  withdrawing  her  arms 
from  me  and  placing  both  hands  in  his.  "I  have 
been  frightened,  and  could  not  help  screaming  out,  and 
Frank  came." 

"  Frightened  ?    What  was  it  that  frightened  you  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know  what  it  was,"  she  stammered.  "  I 
opened  my  eyes,  and  there  was  a  black  thing  bending 
over  me.  I  could  see  a  pair  of  gleaming  eyes  staring 
straight  into  mine.  I  screamed  out,  but  the  thing  re 
mained  bending  over  me,  and  didn't  move  till  Frank's 
step  sounded  outside." 

"  What  ?  "  I  cried  in  amazement.  "  Didn't  this  shape, 
whatever  it  was,  take  its  flight  through  the  door  ?  " 

"  No ;  there  was  no  opening  of  the  door  till  you 
came.  It's  here  now  in  the  room  somewhere.  As  you 

183 


The  Weird  Picture 

opened  the  door  it  darted  off  on  this  side,"  motioning 
to  the  left  with  her  hand. 

There  was  a  sensation  among  the  ladies,  and  they 
drew  closer  to  one  another.  The  gentlemen,  with 
a  valour  born  of  numbers,  peered  into  wardrobes  and 
cupboards,  and  looked  beneath  the  bed  and  behind 
hangings. 

I  could  see  my  uncle  and  the  Baronet  exchanging 
curious  glances,  and  I  knew  that  both  were  connecting 
the  cause  of  Daphne's  fright  with  the  apparition  sup 
posed  to  haunt  the  picture-gallery.  It  was  the  opinion 
of  every  one  else  that  she  had  been  dreaming. 

"  Oh,  you  silly  girl !  "  cried  Florrie,  coming  to  the 
bedside.  "  To  fancy  you  saw  a  ghost,  and  frighten 
us  all  out  of  our  beds !  " 

Daphne  shivered  visibly.  The  search  into  every 
corner  of  the  apartment  had  done  very  little  to  remove 
her  terror. 

"  Oh,  Florrie,"  she  cried,  "  do  stay  with  me  for  the 
rest  of  the  night!  I  dare  not  sleep  alone.  I  shall  die 
of  fright  if  it  comes  again.  If  you  could  but  have 
seen  those  gleaming  eyes !  " 

The  Baronet's  niece  expressed  her  perfect  willing 
ness  to  share  her  sleep  with  Daphne. 

"  Leave  me  that  sword,"  she  said  to  me.  "  I  only 
hope  that  ghost  will  return :  if  it  is  one  of  flesh  and 
blood  it  had  better  not  venture  too  near  me !  " 

And  Florrie  waved  the  blade  above  her  head  with 
the  serio-comic  air  of  the  pretty  lady-hero  in  the 
Christmas  pantomine  when  she  bids  the  wicked  demon 
come  on  and  do  his  worst. 

"  Florrie  is  an  Amazon,"  smiled  the  Baronet,  "  and 
doesn't  fear  man,  ghost,  or  devil.  I  think,  Miss  Leslie, 
you  will  be  quite  safe  in  her  keeping." 

We  made  no  longer  tarrying,  but,  bidding  the  two 

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More  of  the  Picture 

girls  "  good-night,"  withdrew — the  ladies  to  their 
rooms,  the  gentlemen  to  the  broad  landing,  at  the 
end  of  the  corridor,  there  to  discuss  the  affair  for  a 
few  minutes. 

"  This  is  a  very  mysterious  house,"  said  my  uncle 
to  the  Baronet. 

"  Egad !     I'm  beginning  to  think  so  myself." 
Among  those  who  had   stood  silent   spectators  in 
Daphne's  room  was  a  doctor  of  great  renown. 

"  Did   you  not  detect,"   he  said  to  my  uncle,   "  a 
peculiar  odour  hanging  around  the  dressing-table  ?  " 
"  I  did.     Perfumes  for  handkerchiefs,  I  suppose." 
"Perfumes    for   handkerchiefs — Oh?"    replied   the 
doctor  in  a  curious  tone  of  voice,  and  sniffing  as  if 
the  odour  still  remained  in  his  nostrils.     "  Hum !  I 
shouldn't  advise  the  young  lady  to  sprinkle  her  hand 
kerchief  too  freely  with  that  sort  of  essence,  unless 
she  wishes  to  be  a  member  of  '  kingdom  come ! ' ' 


185 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  FIGURE  IN  THE  GREY  CLOAK 

ON  descending  next  morning  to  the  drawing- 
room,  I  found  Angelo  there  before  me,  the  idol 
of  a  crowd  of  aesthetic  young  ladies  who  adored 
art  (and  especially  the  artist)  without  understanding 
much  about  either.  He  was  exhibiting  to  their  admir 
ing  gaze  the  contents  of  his  portfolio  and  unless  my 
eyesight  deceived  me,  it  was  the  identical  portfolio  he 
had  displayed  to  me  on  that  memorable  wedding  morn 
ing. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  question  the  artist  on 
that  singular  utterance  of  his  when  he  first  parted  from 
Daphne :  "  You  are  nearer  to  him  now  than  you 
have  been  for  months ;  "  but  as  I  saw  that  he  pur 
posely  ignored  me,  I  imitated  his  example,  and  ignored 
him. 

I  was  curious  to  see  how  he  would  receive  Daphne 
on  this  occasion — their  first  meeting  after  her  refusal 
of  him ;  but  he  manifested  no  signs  of  embarrassment 
when  she  appeared,  and  acknowledged  her  presence 
with  an  air  so  grave  and  stately  that  none,  seeing  him, 
would  ever  have  guessed  that  he  had  at  one  time  made 
passionate  love  to  her. 

Daphne  was  confused  and  blushed  a  little,  and 
was  not  sorry,  I  think,  when,  at  the  sound  of  the 
breakfast-bell,  I  relieved  her  of  his  presence  by  escort 
ing  her  to  the  table,  taking  care  to  put  as  many  feet 

186 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

of  mahogany  as  I  could  between  her  and  the  artist, 
who  had  for  his  partner  the  lively  Florrie. 

During  breakfast  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
mysterious  apparition  of  the  preceding  night,  and 
Daphne  was  twitted  by  the  ladies  for  her  fright ;  but 
the  Baronet,  noticing  how  agitated  she  became  and 
how  distasteful  the  subject  was  to  her,  came  to  her 
aid,  and,  declaring  that  he  would  not  allow  her  to  be 
teased,  diverted  the  conversation  to  another  channel. 

"  When  do  you  expect  to  finish  your  picture  ?  "  he 
said,  turning  to  Angelo. 

"  Within  a  few  days :  perhaps  a  few  hours." 

Perhaps  a  few  hours !  Such  an  answer  implied  that 
it  was  within  the  range  of  probability  for  the  comple 
tion  of  his  picture  to  take  place  on  Christmas  Day — 
that  is,  on  the  very  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which 
he  had  finished  his  last  masterpiece.  This  coincidence 
of  dates  was  certainly  remarkable,  and  my  uncle  could 
not  help  reverting  to  it. 

"  Christmas  is  a  favorite  time  with  you,"  he  re 
marked.  "  Your  last  great  work,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  received  its  final  touch  on  Christmas  Day." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  artist,  "  because  both  pictures 
represent  death  scenes ;  and  the  brilliant  sunshine  and 
blue  skies  of  summer-time  are  too  joyous  to  allow  me 
to  think  of  anything  sad.  I  am  like  that  poet  who 
could  never  write  good  verse  unless  he  was  in  an 
elegant  and  tastefully-appointed  study.  Similarly,  I 
find  the  gloom  and  darkness  of  your  English  Christ 
mas  a  more  appropriate  time  than  any  other  to  portray 
my  conceptions  of  death." 

"  Egad !  there's  something  in  that,"  said  the  doctor 
with  a  nod  of  approval.  He  seemed  to  have  taken 
a  great  fancy  for  Angelo.  "  The  weather  has  a  won 
derful  effect  on  the  mental  faculties." 

187 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  The  want  of  a  suitable  model  has  delayed  your 
work,  I  think  you  said,"  said  the  Baronet  to  Angelo. 
"  Did  you  procure  in  London  what  you  wanted  f  " 

"  Yes ;  I  have — found  a — a — "  he  seemed  to  hesitate 
as  to  the  choice  of  a  word —  "  a  lovely  figure.  The 
very  ideal  of  what  an  artist's  model  should  be." 

"What  is  the  subject  of  your  picture?"  inquired 
Florrie. 

"  I  am  going  to  call  it  '  Modesta,  the  Christian 
Martyr.'  It  represents  a  scene  in  the  Coliseum.  A 
Christian  maiden  is  breathing  her  last  on  the  sands 
of  the  arena.  A  Libyan  lion  stands  proudly  over  her, 
with  one  claw  fixed  in  her  breast." 

"  What  a  ghastly  subject !  "  said  Florrie. 

"  Ghastly  ?  Yes ;  yet  such  things  have  been,  and 
'tis  well  to  recall  them,"  replied  the  artist  gravely. 
"  You  must  judge  my  picture  by  the  end  it  is  meant 
to  accomplish,  which  is  not  mere  vulgar  sensationalism. 
It  is  intended  as  a  contribution  to  religion — an  aid  to 
morality;  for  it  is  my  object  to  show  the  character  of 
ancient  paganism,  and  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
sweet  girl-martyr  men  will  derive  nobler  ideas  of  the 
great  battle  which  their  ancestral  Christianity  had  to 
fight." 

His  eyes  sparkled  and  his  cheek  glowed  with  the 
fire  of  enthusiasm. 

"  Angelo  posing  as  an  exponent  of  morality  is  a 
new  character,"  I  murmured  to  my  uncle,  who  sat  be 
side  me. 

The  artist  was  now  in  his  element.  A  multitude  of 
questions  relative  to  his  new  work  were  addressed  to 
him  from  all  sides.  Nobody  was  more  attentive  to  his 
words  than  the  doctor,  or  more  curiously  interrogative. 
I  marvelled  to  see  him  taking  such  an  interest  in 
Angelo's  painting. 

188 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

"  It  was  Italy,"  explained  the  artist,  "  that  furnished 
me  with  the  blue  sky  of  my  picture.  I  spent  months 
there  experimenting  on  canvas  till  I  had  caught 
the  lovely  transparent  azure  of  the  Italian  atmosphere. 
The  amphitheatre  I  painted  sitting  on  the  arena  of  the 
Coliseum  itself,  picturing  to  my  mental  eye  the  place 
as  it  existed  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  Empire.  From 
Rome  I  transferred  my  canvas  to  Paris.  They  have 
a  magnificent  African  lion  there  in  the  Jardin  d'Accli- 
matation.  I  took  a  photograph  of  him.  It  was  a  diffi 
cult  matter  for  the  keepers  to  compel  him  to  assume 
the  pose  I  wanted,  but  it  was  managed  at  last ;  and, 
working  from  the  photograph,  I  got  the  image  of  the 
lion  fixed  on  the  canvas.  Since  my  arrival  at  the 
Abbey  here  I  have  been  filling  in  the  minor  details  and 
working  at  the  figure  of  the  girl-martyr,  which  I 
am  hoping  will  prove  the  crowning-piece  of  the  whole 
picture." 

"  Well,"  said  the  genial  Baronet,  when  breakfast 
was  over,  "  what  is  to  be  the  programme  for  to-day  ? 
I  would  propose  a  ride  over  the  moors,  but  I  fear  the 
weather  is  scarcely  propitious." 

"  Oh,  we  can't  ride  out  to-day,"  said  Florrie.  "  We 
all  solemnly  promised  the  Vicar  yesterday  that  we 
would  help  him  to  decorate  the  church  with  flowers 
and  holly  this  morning." 

"  And  he  says  that  he  must  keep  you  to  your  prom 
ise,"  smiled  a  clerical-looking  young  man,  the  Rev. 
Cyprian  Fontalwater,  curate  of  Silverdale,  who,  having 
come  with  that  very  message  from  the  Vicar,  had  been 
compelled  by  the  hospitable  Sir  Hugh  to  stay  to  break 
fast.  "  Our  Dissenting  brethren  " — he  called  them 
brethren,  but  he  didn't  mean  it —  "  are  beautifying 
and  adorning  their — er — meeting  house,  and  we  must 
not  be  outdone  by  them  in  floral  decorations  any 

189 


The  Weird  Picture 

more  than  we  are  in  the — ahem ! — spiritual  portion  of 
the  service." 

He  coughed  slightly,  as  if  apologising  for  bringing 
this  last  point  before  the  notice  of  the  company. 

The  conversation  now  took  an  ecclesiastical  turn 
under  Florrie's  lead,  and  we  were  soon  discussing  such 
topics  as  the  decorations,  Christmas  carols,  and  the 
anthem  to  be  sung  at  the  service  in  the  morning. 

"  Well,"said  the  Baronet,  giving  the  signal  for  ris 
ing,  "  suppose  before  setting  off  for  the  church  you 
spend  an  hour  in  the  picture-gallery,  and  view  my 
latest  addition  to  it." 

Expressions  of  delighted  assent  arose. 

"  When  I  tell  you  that  the  addition  I  allude  to  is  the 
great  masterpiece  of  Mr.  Vasari,"  he  added  with  a 
gracious  wave  of  his  hand  towards  the  artist,  "  the 
masterpiece  that  set  all  Paris  talking  last  summer, 
we  shall  require  no  other  reason  for  visiting  the  gallery 
at  once." 

Remembering  Angelo's  curious  dealings  with  re 
gard  to  his  famous  work  of  art,  I  thought  to  see  him 
betray  some  little  confusion  when  it  was  mentioned  by 
the  Baronet.  He  manifested  no  such  embarrassment, 
however,  but  gravely  bowed  his  acknowledgments  ;  and 
Sir  Hugh  led  the  way  from  the  breakfast-table.  The 
artist  and  curate  each  offered  an  arm  to  escort  Florrie. 
Preference  was  given  to  Art.  and  Ecclesiasticism  re 
tired  confounded. 

"  I  shall  put  myself  under  your  guidance,"  said 
Florrie,  taking  Angelo's  arm.  "  You  must  be  my 
cicerone,  and  point  out  the  beauties  of  the  picture  for 
me.  I  haven't  seen  it  yet,  you  know." 

"  The  beauties  ?  You  do  me  too  much  honour.  Say 
the  defects,  rather." 

"  Very  well,  the  defects,  then,"  said  the  irrepressible 

190 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

Florrie.  "  I  daresay  that  sounds  uncomplimentary, 
but  it  isn't  meant  to  be  so.  I'm  no  connoisseur,  and 
what  you  artists  consider  defects  I  may  consider  beau 
ties,  and  what  you  know  to  be  beauties  I  may  think 
defects.  I  never  go  into  an  art-gallery  and  become 
enraptured  with  some  sweet  interesting  painting  with 
out  being  told  by  some  frowning  critic  that  it  is  a 
very  mediocre  performance,  worth  nothing  at  all.  But 
if  I  come  to  some  ugly  daub,  whose  perspective  is 
all  at  fault  and  whose  figures  are  so  comically  drawn 
that  I  feel  tempted  to  laugh,  I  am  told  that  I  must 
reverence  and  adore  because  it  is  a  Cimabue  or  a  Fra 
Angelico.  I  am  deficient  in  taste,  I  suppose.  What 
is  the  title  of  your  picture,  Mr.  Vasari  ?  " 

"  I  have  entitled  it  '  The  Fall  of  Caesar,'  "  replied 
the  artist,  a  little  confounded,  I  thought,  at  the  idea 
that  there  should  be  any  one  in  existence  ignorant  of 
the  title  of  his  famous  work. 

"  '  The  Fall  of  Caesar  ? '  Oh,  how  interesting. 
What  did  he  fall  from  ?  "  she  asked  with  an  assumed- 
ignorance.  She  uttered  this  rather  loudly ;  and  then, 
dropping  her  voice,  she  whispered  in  Daphne's  ear: 
"  Now  hear  Mr.  Fontalwater  give  us  a  lecture.  He's 
sure  to.  Mad  on  history.  Read  nothing  else  from 
his  cradle  upwards." 

And  sure  enough  the  Reverend  Cyprian,  on  hearing 
her  question,  at  once  proceeded  to  satisfy  her  curiosity. 

"  Caius  Julius  Caesar,  Miss  Wyville,  was  stabbed  by 
conspirators  in  the  Senate  House  at  Rome,  and  fell 
at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue  covered  with  twenty- 
three  wounds.  According  to  Plutarch  the  conspirators 
were  Marcus  Brutus,  Metellus  Cimber,  Cassius, 
Casca " 

"  My  goodness,  Mr.  Fontalwater,  what  a  memory 
you  have !  "  cried  Florrie,  cutting  him  short  with  a 

191 


The  Weird  Picture 

look  of  mock  admiration.  "  You  surely  don't  expect 
me  to  remember  all  those  names?  You  are  worse 
than  my  old  governess.  Have  you  introduced  all 
those  classical  fogies  into  your  picture,  Mr.  Vasari  ?  " 

"  No,  Miss  Wyville ;  my  picture  contains  but  two 
figures — Caesar  lying  dead  at  the  foot  of  Pompey's 
statue.  I  have  represented  this  statue  pointing  down 
ward  with  its  lance,  figuratively  intimating  thereby 
the  fate  that  befalls  a  too  lofty  ambition.  Personal 
vanity  has  induced  me  to  represent  Pompey  with 
my  own  features,  a  proceeding  for  which  I  can  quote 
a  notable  precedent — the  immortal  Haydon,  who,  in 
his  famous  picture,  '  Curtius  leaping  into  the  Gulf,' 
gave  to  the  Roman  hero  his  own  countenance — a 
fact  mournfully  prophetic  of  his  own  sad  downward 
destiny." 

"  And  so,"  replied  Florrie,  "  in  the  figure  of  Pompey 
you  represent  yourself  as  triumphing  over  the  dead. 
Fie,  Mr.  Vasari !  " 

"  I  am  pointing  a  moral,  you  see." 

"  What  a  curious  idea  to  introduce  one's  own  face 
into  a  picture !  I  should  not  like  to  offend  you :  you 
would  paint  some  wicked  historical  woman,  and  then 
give  her  my  features.  But  tell  me,  have  you  given 
to  your  Caesar  the  face  of  a  friend?  Come,  don't  deny 
it ;  I  am  sure  you  have.  Whose  features  served  as  a 
model  ?  Oh,  do  tell  us  !  " 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  he  replied.  "  I  did,  indeed, 
procure  an  ancient  bust  of  Caesar,  but  finally  I  aban 
doned  sculptured  fact  for  my  own  imagination,  and 
endeavoured  to  paint  ambition's  ideal  face." 

"  I  am  quite  dying  to  see  it,"  said  Florrie.  "  Is  it 
true  what  they  say,  Mr.  Vasari,  that  your  way  of 
painting  is  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Quite  true.     I  am  not  aware  that  my  method  is 

192 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

employed  by  the  artists  of  to-day.  Yet  my  method 
is  no  new  thing;  it  is  simply  the  revival  of  an  idea 
buried  in  the  dust  of  ages." 

"  And  are  you  not  going  to  reveal  it?  " 

"  And  raise  a  crowd  of  imitators  ?  Pardon  me — 
no.  None  shall  rob  me  of  my  laurels.  If  it  were 
possible  to  patent  my  idea,  I  should  have  no  hesitation 
in  disclosing  it.  But  the  secret  shall  not  die  with  me. 
At  my  death  I  will  leave  papers  showing  how  my 
effects  were  wrought." 

I  attributed  all  this  to  the  vanity  of  the  artist,  not 
knowing  how  much  truth  there  was  in  his  boasted 
secret. 

The  doctor  nodded  approval,  as  if  he  understood 
all  that  the  artist  meant.  He  had  been  walking  close 
to  Angelo  all  the  way  from  the  breakfast-table,  listen 
ing  to  his  utterances  as  though  they  were  so  many 
gems  of  wisdom  that  deserved  to  be  treasured  in  the 
memory. 

By  this  time  we  had  entered  the  gallery,  a  mag 
nificent  hall — long,  broad,  and  lofty.  On  one  side  only 
was  the  light  admitted,  and  that  through  high  and 
deep  embrasured  casements.  The  spaces  between  the 
windows  were  adorned  with  the  family  portraits  all 
arranged  in  chronological  order,  beginning  with  a 
fearfully  weird  daub  of  Richard  III.'s  time,  and  end 
ing  with  a  splendid  portrait  of  Sir  Hugh. 

The  wall  facing  the  windows  was  covered  with 
pictures  of  a  general  character,  and  was  penetrated 
at  regular  intervals  by  deep  alcoves  containing  suits 
of  mail  and  mounted  knights  armed  cap-a-pie,  illus 
trating  various  periods  of  English  history ;  for  the 
Wyvilles  had  been  an  ancient  family  long  ere  they  re 
ceived  from  the  hand  of  Mary  Stuart's  son  the  patent 
of  baronetcy. 

193 


The  Weird  Picture 

We  proceeded  leisurely  down  the  gallery,  I  listening, 
in  shame  be  it  written,  with  very  little  interest  to  the 
Baronet's  genealogical  discourse,  because  all  my 
thoughts  were  running  on  Angelo's  painting. 

"  I  understood,"  said  my  uncle,  turning  to  the 
artist,  "  that  your  great  picture  had  gone  to  Spain, 
and  never  expected  to  meet  it  in  the  Abbey  here." 

"  What  gave  you  that  idea  ?  "  inquired  Angelo  with 
a  smile  of  amusement. 

"  Yourself,  I  believe.  Don't  you  remember  telling 
us  at  Rivoli  that  you  had  sold  your  picture  to  a  Span 
ish  nobleman  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  do  not  remember  saying  so,"  replied 
the  artist  with  a  decided  emphasis  on  the  negative 
adverb,  and  speaking  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was 
quite  sure  of  the  truth  of  his  statement. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  did,"  I  returned  quietly.  "  De  Argan- 
darez  was  the  name  of  the  nobleman — an  old  hidalgo 
of  Aragon,  you  know." 

"  I  think  I  remember  it,  too,"  said  Daphne  timidly. 

"  We  are  three  to  one,  you  see,"  remarked  my  uncle. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,"  said  Angelo,  "  to  differ  from 
Miss  Leslie,  but  I  certainly  have  no  recollection  of 
ever  saying  any  such  thing.  I  was  guilty  of  falsehood 
if  I  did.  How  could  I  have  said  so,  when  Sir  Hugh 
was  the  only  one  who  offered  to  purchase?" 

This  argument  was  of  course  unanswerable.  The 
doctor  offered  us  the  tribute  of  a  pitying  smile,  as 
if  to  say,  "  This  is  how  a  man  of  genius  is  liable  to  be 
misinterpreted." 

We  had  now  reached  the  middle  of  the  hall,  when 
a  sudden  exclamation  broke  from  Sir  Hugh,  and  on 
looking  up  I  saw  that  worthy  Baronet  staring  at  a 
certain  extent  of  oak  panelling  in  the  wall  that  faced 
the  windows.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  about 

194 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

this  extent  of  panelling:  it  held  no  pictures,  that  was 
all ;  but  the  Baronet's  words  soon  showed  us  what 
was  wrong. 

"  Why,  how's  this  ?  "  he  cried  in  a  voice  that  was 
almost  a  shout.  "  The  picture's  gone !  " 

:<  The  picture  ?  What  picture  ? "  cried  Angelo, 
dropping  Florrie's  arm  in  his  excitement,  and  hurrying 
to  the  side  of  the  Baronet. 

"  Why  yours  !     '  The  Fall  of  Caesar.'  " 

"Are  you  sure?"  cried  Angelo  breathlessly. 

"  Quite.  And  it  was  hanging  here  last  night,  I 
will  swear." 

There  was  a  deep  and  painful  silence,  followed  by 
the  usual  commonplaces  evoked  by  a  surprise. 

"  Where  can  it  have  gone  ? "  cried  Angelo,  his 
voice  expressing  the  deepest  concern.  "Sir  Hugh,  I 
trust  nothing  has  happened  to  that  picture.  Though 
yours  in  point  of  law,  I  still  regard  it  to  some  extent 
as  mine.  I  would  never  have  parted  with  it,  if  I  had 
thought  it  would  be  destroyed.  My  picture!  my  pic 
ture  !  Some  one  must  have  stolen  it." 

He  sank  down  on  a  seat,  and  lifted  his  hand  to  his 
brow  with  a  bewildered  air,  as  if  scarcely  realising 
the  situation. 

"  This  is  the  work  of  an  enemy,"  he  murmured. 

If  his  words  were  true,  the  enemy  was  certainly  one 
who  knew  how  to  strike  home.  No  mortification — 
not  even  Daphne's  refusal  of  his  love — could  have  been 
more  bitter  to  the  artist  than  the  knowledge  that  his 
adored  masterpiece  was  in  the  hands  of  an  enemy 
capable  of  destroying  it. 

"  Let  all  the  servants  be  sent  for,"  cried  the  Baronet. 
"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  First  it  is  a  book  that 
vanishes,  then  a  picture." 

"  And  next — a  lady,"  murmured  a  voice. 

195 


The  Weird  Picture 

It  was  the  doctor  who  spoke,  but  his  tones  were  so 
low  that  they  reached  no  ear  but  mine.  I  stared  at 
him,  wondering  what  he  meant. 

"  A  book  ?    What  book  ?  "  cried  Florrie. 

The  Baronet  described  the  missing  volume,  relating 
the  circumstances  under  which  he  came  to  lose  it.  The 
guests  shook  their  heads.  They  could  give  no  account 
of  its  disappearance. 

All  the  servants,  young  and  old,  male  and  female, 
now  came  trooping  into  the  hall,  with  wonder  depicted 
on  their  faces  at  being  thus  strangely  summoned. 

"  Now,  Fruin,"  said  the  Baronet,  addressing  the 
butler,  whose  duty  it  was  to  see  that  the  gallery  was 
locked  at  night,  "  let  me  ask  you  if  the  fastenings  of 
these  windows,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  long  line  of 
casements,  "  were  all  as  secure  when  you  examined 
them  this  morning  as  they  were  when  you  left  them 
last  night  ?  " 

The  butler  murmured  an  affirmative  reply. 

"  You  locked  the  doors  at  both  ends  of  the  gallery  ?  " 

"  I  did,  Sir  Hugh." 

The  Baronet  turned  to  his  housekeeper. 

"  There  was  nothing,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Goldwin,  in 
any  part  of  the  house  this  morning  to  lead  you  to 
suspect  that  the  Abbey  had  been  entered  during  the 
night?" 

The  good  dame  asserted  that  there  had  been  noth 
ing  to  lead  her  to  that  suspicion. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  continued  the  Baronet,  scanning 
the  faces  of  the  assembled  servants  with  a  keen  eye ; 
"  let  me  ask  if  any  of  you  can  account  for  the  dis 
appearance  of  a  picture — a  very  valuable  picture.  It 
was  hanging  on  this  part  of  the  wall  last  night.  It 
is  not  here  now,  you  see." 

The     servants     began     to     interchange     significant 

196 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

glances,  and  I  knew  that  in  their  own  minds  they  were 
connecting  the  disappearance  of  the  picture  with  the 
ghostly  figure  supposed  to  haunt  the  gallery. 

"  The  thing  couldn't  go  without  hands,  you  know," 
resumed  Sir  Hugh ;  "  and  as  you  are  certain  that  no 
burglars  entered  the  place  last  night,  it  follows  that 
the  picture  must  have  been  removed  by  some  one  in 
the  Abbey.  Can  any  of  you  tell  me  what  has  be 
come  of  it?  " 

"  It  always  was  an  uncanny  picture,"  remarked  a 
little  housemaid.  "  When  I  was  dusting  it  the  other 
day  the  figure  stared  at  me  with  its  dead  eyes.  I  am 
sure  they  moved  once." 

''Uncanny!  How  dare  you?"  exclaimed  Angelo 
so  fiercely  that  the  poor  little  maid  shrank  behind 
the  others  in  dismay.  "  Your  dislike  of  it  exposes  you 
to  suspicion.  You,  or  some  of  your  fellow  servants 
here,  from  an  absurd  fear,  have  destroyed  it.  Produce 
the  picture,  you  gaping  pack  of  menials !  My  picture  ! 
my  picture !  " 

And  he  sank  down  again  on  the  seat,  the  very  image 
of  despair. 

"  What  Mr.  Vasari  says  is  perfectly  correct,"  said 
the  Baronet.  "  Suspicion  rests  on  you  all  till  the 
picture  be  produced.  There  is  a  silly  story  going  the 
round  among  you  that  a  ghost  is  seen  in  this  hall  at 
night.  I  need  not  tell  you  I  do  not  believe  it ;  but 
even  if  it  were  so,  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  picture's 
disappearing  ?  A  ghost,  according  to  your  own  theory, 
you  know,  is  nothing  but  air :  now  a  being  that  is 
simply  air  cannot  carry  off  a  heavy  picture,  any  more 
than  the  sunbeams  shining  through  that  casement  can 
lift  this  chair.  No;  human  hands  have  been  at  work 
here,  that's  quite  clear." 


197 


The  Weird  Picture 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  and  then  Fruin,  step 
ping  forward  and  clearing  his  throat,  said : 

"  Sir  Hugh,  I  ought  to  have  spoken  before,  perhaps, 
but  knowing  how  much  you  hate  ghost  stories,  I  didn't 
like  to  speak." 

"  Well,  speak  now,"  said  the  Baronet  impatiently — 
"  that  is,"  he  added,  "  if  your  story  is  a  fresh  one,  and 
not  a  mere  repetition  of  last  night's  nonsense." 

"  My  bedroom,  as  you  know,  Sir  Hugh,  is  over  one 
end  of  the  gallery." 

It  was  with  this  very  sentence  that  Fruin  had  begun 
his  story  of  the  previous  night.  Evidently  it  was  a 
stereotyped  formula  with  him  when  recounting  his 
ghostly  experiences,  not  to  be  abandoned  any  more 
than  the  orthodox  "  Once  upon  a  time  "  of  the  fairy 
stories. 

;'  This  morning  about  three  o'clock  I  fancied  I  heard 
a  noise  as  if  some  one  were  walking  up  and  down  here  ; 
I  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  I  could  see 
a  light  shining  through  the  casements  below  on  to  the 
lawn.  This  light  kept  appearing  and  disappearing, 
as  if  the  person  in  the  gallery  were  walking  to  and  fro 
with  a  lamp.  I  put  on  my  things  and  came  down 
stairs " 

"  Didn't  you  wake  some  of  the  others  ?  "  interrupted 
the  Baronet. 

"  No,  Sir  Hugh." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  knew  none  of  them  would  come.  It 
isn't  the  first  time  nor  yet  the  second  that  we've  heard 
queer  sounds  coming  from  this  hall  at  night,  and  once 
when  I  did  try  to  persuade  the  others  to  come  down 
with  me  to  find  out  what  the  matter  was,  not  one 
of  them  would  leave  their  beds,  so  I  didn't  try  last 
night." 

198 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

"  Cowards !    Why  did  you  not  come  to  me,  Fruln  ?  " 

"  Or  to  me  ?  "  groaned  Angelo. 

"  It  would  have  taken  me  some  minutes  to  reach  your 
room,  Sir  Hugh,  and  by  that  time  the  thing  might  have 
gone,  and  a  pretty  fool  I  should  have  looked  at  having 
called  you  up  for  nothing.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I 
crept  downstairs  and  stood  outside  that  door.  I  had 
the  keys  in  my  hand,  but  I  don't  mind  confessing  I 
was  afraid  to  enter.  A  man,  a  burglar,  anything  in 
human  shape  I'll  face,  but  this  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door  was  a  different  matter.  I  listened  and  heard  steps 
moving  softly  to  and  fro " 

"  Was  there  more  than  one  person,  do  you  think?  " 

"  I  can't  say,  Sir  Hugh.  I  thought  at  first  there  was 
only  one ;  afterwards  I  thought  there  were  two." 

"  What  made  you  think  there  were  two  ?  " 

"  I  am  coming  to  it,  Sir  Hugh.  As  I  was  saying,  I 
listened,  and  could  hear  footsteps.  After  a  time  they 
ceased,  and  there  came  sounds  as  if  two  persons  were 
whispering  together,  but  it  may  only  have  been  one 
person  talking  to  himself.  Then  there  was  a  long 
silence,  and  at  last  there  came  a  cry — such  a  cry !  My 
blood  ran  cold  to  hear  it.  I  dropped  on  one  knee,  and 
peered  through  the  keyhole,  a  thing  which,  strangely 
enough,  I  hadn't  thought  of  doing  before,  and  there — 
and  there " 

Here  the  butler  paused  as  if  conscious  that  his  next 
item  was  a  little  too  extravagant  for  belief. 

"Well,  go  on.     You   saw ?" 

"  Mr.  Vasari's  picture  was  hanging  in  its  usual  place 
there,"  pointing  to  the  black  panel,  "  but,"  and  the 
speaker  dropped  his  voice  to  an  awed  whisper,  "  ly 
ing  on  the  floor  was  a  figure — the  moonlight  was  shin 
ing  clear  upon  it — a  figure  in  a  long  cloak,  a  grey 
cloak.  I  jumped  to  my  feet  at  once.  'Good  God! 

199 


The  Weird  Picture 

there*s  a  murder  been  done ! '  I  thought.  I  forgot 
my  fright  in  the  desire  to  see  if  I  could  give  the  poor 
fellow  any  help.  I  unlocked  the  door,  flung  it  open, 
and —  He  paused  once  more.  '  The  picture  was 
still  there,  but  the  figure  was  gone.  I  came  a  little 
way  into  the  gallery,  but  I  could  see  nobody.  Then  all 
my  fright  returned.  '  It  must  have  been  a  ghost,'  I 
thought.  I  dared  not  stay  any  longer,  and  I  bolted 
off  to  bed  as  quick  as  my  legs  could  carry  me.  For 
a  long  time  I  lay  awake,  but  I  heard  nothing  more." 

I  offered  a  chair  to  Daphne,  for  she  seemed  on  the 
point  of  fainting.  The  mention  of  a  figure  in  a  grey 
cloak  had  revived  all  the  memories  of  that  night  by 
the  haunted  well. 

Strange  as  Fruin's  story  was,  it  was  told  in  a  way 
that  made  it  impossible  to  dismiss  it  with  a  sneer.  Sir 
Hugh  seemed  to  feel  this;  seemed,  too,  to  be  angry 
with  himself  for  feeling  it.  He  looked  in  silence  at  his 
guests,  whose  faces  reflected  his  own  uneasiness.  The 
empty  space  on  the  wall  was  a  disquieting  fact. 

"  Your  story,"  he  said,  "  does  not  explain  in  the 
least  how  the  picture  comes  to  be  missing."  Turning 
to  the  other  servants,  he  continued : 

''  The  picture  has  been  removed  by  some  one  within 
the  Abbey,  and  not  by  any  outsider :  of  that  I  am  cer 
tain.  If  any  of  you  has  taken  it,  he  had  better 
confess  at  once,  and  I  will  overlook  the  offence,  or 
rather  I  will  inflict  no  other  punishment  than  that 
of  dismissal  from  my  service.  I  will  give  the  guilty 
party,  whoever  he  may  be,  an  hour  to  consider  the 
matter.  If  at  the  end  of  that  time  no  confession  be 
forthcoming,  I  will  make  a  thorough  search  of  the  Ab 
bey  from  end  to  end  and  from  roof  to  basement,  for  I 
am  certain  the  picture  must  be  concealed  somewhere 
within  it.  And  I  promise  you  whoever  shall  be  found 

200 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

to  have  taken  it  shall  not  be  leniently  dealt  with. 
What's  the  matter  with  that  girl  ?  " 

This  last  question  was  occasioned  by  the  singular 
conduct  of  the  little  housemaid  before  mentioned  who 
had  so  evoked  Angelo's  wrath.  She  was  staring 
at  the  artist,  and  had  been  staring  at  him  ever  since 
his  outburst,  as  though  there  were  some  strange  attrac 
tion  in  his  face.  Several  times  she  had  seemed  on  the 
point  of  speaking,  but  had  hesitated  as  if  from  fear. 
At  the  Baronet's  question,  however,  her  emotion  at 
last  bubbled  over  and  took  the  shape  of  words.  She 
pointed  to  the  artist  with  her  forefinger,  and  cried,  as 
defiant  of  grammar  as  the  monks  of  Rheims  when  they 
beheld  the  kleptomanaic  jackdaw : 

"  That's  him  !  that's  him  !  " 

Her  arm  dropped  from  a  horizontal  to  a  vertical 
position  on  receiving  a  smart  tap  from  the  housekeep 
er's  hand. 

"  How  dare  you  point  in  that  rude  fashion  ?  Have 
you  no  manners  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That's  the  face !  "  cried  the  girl — "  the  face  in  the 
picture !  " 

'''  Oh,  that's  what  you  mean,  is  it?"  said  the  Bar 
onet.  "  Yes,  yes ;  we  know  that."  And  turning  to  the 
artist,  he  explained  the  housemaid's  words  by  saying: 
"  She  recognises  you  to  be  the  Pompey  of  the  picture." 

"  And  there's  the  other  face,"  cried  the  girl,  pointing 
at  me. 

This  observation  startled  me.  Surely  the  artist  had 
not  adopted  my  features  as  the  model  for  the  face  of 
his  Csesar? 

"  Don't  be  stupid,  girl!  "  said  Sir  Hugh  impatiently. 
"  The  other  face  is  no  more  like  Mr.  Willard's  than — 
yes,  it  is,  though,  now  I  come  to  look  deeply  at  you," 
he  continued,  regarding  me  a  moment.  "  There 

201 


The  Weird  Picture 

is  a  faint  resemblance — not  much.  The  girl  has  a 
quick  eye.  How  she  stares  at  you,  Angelo !  Upon 
my  word,"  he  said  with  a  grim  smile,  "  I  believe 
she  thinks  you  have  stepped  out  of  the  canvas.  Don't 
stare  so  at  Mr.  Vasari,  girl.  You  must  be  out  of  your 
mind !  " 

'  Then  what's  he  laughing  for,  and  staring  at  me 
with  his  wicked   eyes — frightening  me   so  ?  " 

"  Jane,"  said  the  housekeeper,  administering  as  mild 
a  shaking  as  the  dignity  of  her  position  and  the  pres 
ence  of  her  guests  would  allow,  "  how  dare  you  make 
an  exhibition  of  yourself  in  this  manner?  I'll  send 
you  home  to  your  mother  this  very  day !  How  dare 
you  ?  You  shall  not  stay  here  another  hour !  " 

"  It's  his  fault !  "  cried  the  girl,  rendered  desperate 
by  fright.  "  He  keeps  staring  at  me  and  smiling 
wickedly.  I  won't  be  looked  at  like  that !  " 

Her  manner  almost  led  one  to  believe  that  Angelo 
had  been  casting  the  "  evil  eye  "  upon  her,  and  that 
the  operation  hurt.  All  looks  were  turned  towards 
him ;  but  whatever  peculiarity  his  eyes  may  have  dis 
played  had  quite  vanished  now:  they  manifested  only 
their  usual  quiet  dreamy  expression. 

"  The  girl  is  as  mad,"  he  said  with  a  scornful  air, 
"  as  your  curiosity  of  a  butler,  who  takes  the  cater 
wauling  of  a  tom-cat  for  the  cry  of  a  banshee." 

He  had  quite  recovered  from  his  outburst  of  excite 
ment,  and  seemed  by  far  the  calmest  person  present. 

"  Egad,  you're  right !  "  replied  the  Baronet.  "  They 
both  seem  anxious  to  qualify  themselves  for  Bedlam." 

The  doctor  said  nothing,  but  rubbed  his  hands  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  has  arrived  at  a  satisfactory 
solution  of  some  problem  that  has  been  puzzling  him. 

Well,  the  picture  was  gone,  nor  could  it  be  seen  in 
any  part  of  the  gallery.  The  ladies  expressed  a  wish  to 

202 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

retire,  and,  headed  by  the  whispering  servants,  we 
all  withdrew. 

I  was  the  last  to  leave,  lingering  awhile  to  explore 
the  recesses  of  the  hall  in  the  vain  hope  of  lighting  on 
the  missing  picture.  On  gaining  the  drawing-room 
I  found  Daphne  alone  waiting  for  me.  The  rest  of  the 
company  had  retired  to  dress  for  their  expedition  to 
the  church. 

"  Oh,  Frank,  I  feel  so  frightened !  "  she  said,  re 
ferring  to  the  incident  of  the  missing  picture,  and  lay 
ing  both  her  hands  on  my  arm. 

"  And  I  am  not  very  easy  in  my  mind,"  returned  I. 
"  Silverdale  seems  more  mysterious  than  Rivoli." 

"  What  can  it  all  mean  ?  There  was  some  one  in 
my  room  last  night ;  and  now  the  butler  declares  that 
he  has  seen  a  figure  in  a  grey  cloak  in  the  gallery. 
Can  it " — and  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  of  awe — 
"have  anything  to  do  with — with  George?" 

This  was  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned  his  name 
to  me  since  our  leaving  Rivoli.  While  pronouncing  it 
she  gave  a  shiver  of  terror,  and  I  saw  clearly  that  of  all 
persons  on  earth,  the  one  whom  she  was  least  desirous 
of  meeting  was — George ! 

"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,"  etc.  I 
resolved  without  delay  to  take  advantage  of  the  tide, 
that  seemed  to  have  turned  full  in  my  favour. 

"  No,  no,"  I  said.  "  You  mustn't  let  that  stupid 
fellow's  ghost  story  trouble  you.  He's  a  fool !  All 
butlers  are,"  I  added,  with  a  hasty  generalisation; 
"  they're  always  so  old,  you  see." 

"  Then  what  can  it  all  mean  ?  "  repeated  she.  "  We 
seem  to  be  leading  haunted  lives.  I  have  become  so 
nervous  of  late.  I  look  in  the  glass  every  morning  to 
see  whether  my  hair  is  turning  grey.  I  live  in  daily 


203 


The  Weird  Picture 

dread  of — I  don't  know  what,  and  at  night  I  am  as 
afraid  of  the  dark  as  a  little  child." 

She  was  trembling  like  a  leaf.  She  looked  so  pretty 
and  interesting  in  her  grief  that  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  placing  my  arm  sympathisingly  around 
her  waist.  She  did  not  resent  the  action.  On  the 
contrary,  the  new  light  that  sprang  up  in  her  eyes 
could  only  be  caused  by  one  feeling. 

Now  I  had  not  intended  to  make  love  to  Daphne 
for  some  weeks  to  come,  but  the  present  occasion  was 
too  tempting  to  be  thrown  away.  As  Angelo  himself 
had  very  justly  remarked  on  a  similar  occasion,  "  Who 
can  forge  chains  for  love,  and  say,  '  To-day  thou  shalt 
be  dumb  ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  speak  ?  ' ' 

"  Daphne,"  said  I,  "  I  am  going  to  let  you  into  a 
secret." 

"A  secret?"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes  ;  you  have  always  taken  me  into  your  confi 
dences  " — this  was  scarcely  true,  but  it  served  to  pave 
the  way  for  what  was  to  follow —  "  so  I  am  going  to 
take  you  into  mine." 

I  paused  to  admire  the  look  of  mystification  in  her 
bright  eyes. 

"  What  will  you  think,"  I  continued,  speaking  very 
slowly  and  deliberately,  "  when  I  say  that  I  have  fallen 
in  love  with  one  of  the  ladies  here  at  the  Abbey  ?  " 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  "  she  asked,  trembling  all  over, 
and  gently  endeavouring  to  free  herself  from  my 
embrace. 

"  So  much  so,"  I  replied  gravely,  "  that  I  am  going 
to  propose  to  her  this  very  day." 

Daphne's  tongue  seemed  frozen. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  aren't  you  going  to  wish  me  suc 
cess?  " 

"  Tell  me  her  name.    Who  is  she?  "  she  gasped. 

204 


The  Figure  in  the  Grey  Cloak 

"I  have  her  portrait  here — somewhere — in  a  locket 
— that  I'm  going  to  give  her  as  a  Christmas  gift,"  I 
replied  with  apparent  unconcern,  fumbling  in  my 
pockets  for  it ;  and  while  I  was  doing  so  Daphne  con 
trived  to  withdraw  from  my  embrace. 

I  drew  forth  the  locket  and  handed  it  to  her.  It 
contained,  instead  of  a  portrait,  a  tiny  mirror,  whose 
convexity  of  surface  diminished  the  objects  reflected 
by  it. 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake,"  she  replied  coldly, 
returning  the  locket.  "  There  is  no  portrait  here ; 
nothing  but  a  little  mirror." 

"  No ;  I  do  not  mistake.  If  you  look  again  you 
will  see  the  face  of  her  I  love." 

She  gazed  at  me  for  a  few  seconds  before  my  mean 
ing  became  clear,  and  then  gave  a  little  cry : 

"Oh,  Frank!" 

And  Eros  and  Anteros  at  last  kissed  each  other. 

I  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  the  happiest  mortal 
beneath  the  roof  of  Silverdale.  Daphne  had  gone  off 
to  change  her  dress.  She  was  going  to  help  the  guests 
in  their  work  of  decorating  the  church  with  holly  and 
other  Christmas  emblems.  As  the  party  were  to  lunch 
at  the  Vicarage,  they  would  be  absent  a  considerable 
part  of  the  day. 

My  language  implied  that  I  was  not  going  to  form 
one  of  this  party.  Such  was  the  case.  With  many 
expressions  of  regret  for  my  seeming  want  of  gallantry 
on  this  day  of  all  others,  I  had  claimed  indulgence  of 
Daphne  to  remain  behind  at  the  Abbey  on  the  ficti 
tious  plea  that  Sir  Hugh  was  desirous  of  consulting  my 
uncle  and  myself  together  with  some  speculator  from 
London,  on  the  formation  of  a  company  for  the  pur 
pose  of  working  a  vein  of  lead  recently  discovered 
on  the  Silverdale  estate.  The  truth  was  that  the 

205 


The  Weird  Picture 

Baronet  had  determined  to  avail  himself  of  the  absence 
of  his  guests  to  make  a  thorough  search  for  the  lost 
picture,  and  I  was  desirous  of  helping  him. 

It  was  not  without  a  mental  struggle  that  I  con 
sented  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  Daphne's  companion 
ship  for  several  hours,  but  my  anxiety  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  surrounding  the  missing  picture  was  so  great 
that  it  overcame  the  fascination  even  of  love. 

The  sound  of  approaching  voices  told  me  that  the 
doctor  and  the  Baronet  were  entering  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  And  so,"  remarked  the  latter,  "  you  have  made  up 
your  mind  to  go  to  the  church  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  doctor,  drawing  on  a  pair  of 
gloves ;  "  though  not  from  any  particular  wish  to  aid 
in  the  decorating." 

"No?" 

"  No !  A  very  different  motive  takes  me  there. 
Your  young  friend,  the  artist  Vasari,  is  going." 

"Yes?" 

"  I  have  taken  a  deep  interest  in  him." 

"Ah!  how  is  that?" 

"  He  is  a  psychological  study." 

And  with  these  words  the  doctor  walked  away, 
flourishing  his  cane  in  a  mysterious  manner. 


206 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHAT    THE    ARTIST'S    PORTFOLIO    REVEALED 

THE  company  departed  for  the  village  church ; 
and  the  Baronet,  my  uncle,  and  myself,  aided  by 
the  servants,  whose  zeal  had  been  stimulated  by 
the  promise  of  a  liberal  reward  to  whomsoever  should 
discover  the  picture,  proceeded  to  search  the  length 
and  breadth  and  depth  of  the  Abbey.  Every  room, 
including  the  bedrooms  of  the  guests,  was  subjected 
to  a  careful  inspection  ;  places  the  most  unlikely  to 
be  selected  as  the  hiding-place  of  the  famous  chef- 
d'oeuvre  were  examined  by  keen  eyes,  but  all  in  vain. 
We  might  as  well  have  looked  for  the  Holy  Grail, 
said  by  poets  to  have  vanished  somewhere  in  this 
very  neighborhood. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day — it  was  Christmas 
Eve — we  stood  on  the  terrace  overlooking  the  un 
dulating  extent  of  woodland  that  formed  the  grounds 
of  the  Abbey.  The  sun  was  now  low  down  on  the 
horizon.  Its  dying  splendour  tinged  with  red  hues  the 
ivy-mantled  Nuns'  Tower,  that  rose  in  solitary  gran 
deur  on  one  side  of  the  Abbey.  The  Baronet's  eye 
was  resting  on  this  tower,  and  his  thoughts  reverted 
to  the  tenant  of  it. 

"  Angelo  can  explain  the  disappearance  of  the  miss 
ing  picture,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  returned  my  uncle. 

207 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  I  am  loath  to  suspect  him,  but  I  cannot  help  think 
ing  that  he  carried  it  off  in  the  night." 

"  He  carried  it  off  well  in  the  morning,  then," 
responded  my  uncle  jocularly.  "  Who  would  have 
thought  from  his  surprise  and  agitation  that  he  him 
self  had  removed  it !  " 

"  His  surprise  and  agitation  were  assumed,  to  dis 
arm  suspicion." 

"  Perhaps.  But  what  is  his  motive  for  the  re 
moval?" 

"  From  certain  things  you  have  told  me,  I  believe 
he  is  determined  that  neither  you  nor  Frank  shall 
see  his  great  masterpiece." 

The  Baronet's  opinion  was  one  that  I  had  long  held. 

"  Why  not,  in  Heaven's  name  ?  "  cried  my  amazed 
uncle. 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  reason  best  known  to  himself.  I 
fancy — it  seems  absurd  to  say  it — that  the  picture, 
when  seen  by  you,  will  reveal  something  that  is  en 
tirely  passed  over  by  others :  something  detrimental  to 
himself,  I  mean — what,  I  cannot  undertake  to  say." 

"What  can  he  have  done  with  it?" 

"  It  is  inside  that  tower,"  replied  the  Baronet  confi 
dently. 

"Why  there?  Why  in  existence  at  all?  If  he  is 
so  anxious,  as  you  say,  to  prevent  us  from  seeing  it, 
the  safe  plan  would  be  to  destroy  it  altogether." 

"  That  would  be  the  course  of  a  wise  man — yes ; 
but  Angelo  is  a  fond  parent,  you  see ;  his  picture  is  his 
favourite  child,  and  he  cannot  bring  himself  to  destroy 
it.  Perhaps  he  intends  after  your  departure  to  return 
it  to  me  uninjured,  concocting  some  cock-and-bull 
story  as  to  where  he  found  it.  I  trust  to  goodness 
he  will  do  something  of  the  kind/'  continued  the 
Baronet.  "  So  valuable  a  thing  is  no  trifle  to  lose. 

208 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

If  I  could  obtain  proof  that  he  has  taken  it,  I  would 
certainly  bring  him  to  book  before  the  law." 

"  Can't  we  search  the  tower?"  I  said;  "  Angelo  is 
absent." 

"  Exactly ;  but  he  takes  care  to  lock  the  door  every 
time  he  leaves  it." 

"  Have  you  no  other  keys  that  will  fit  the  lock  ?  " 

"  The  key  of  that  lock  has  peculiar  wards.  There 
is  no  other  like  it  in  my  possession." 

"  Well,  let  us  go  to  the  tower,"  I  said.  "  He  may 
for  once  have  left  the  door  unlocked — who  knows  ?  " 

"  Not  very  likely,  but  we  may  try." 

The  tower,  octagonal  in  shape,  was  situated  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  main  body  of  the  Abbey,  to 
which  it  was  joined  by  a  covered  walk  consisting  of  a 
wall  on  one  side  and  a  row  of  pillars  on  the  other.  It 
contained  but  one  story,  lighted  by  a  large  Gothic 
casement  twelve  feet  at  least  from  the  ground.  Access 
was  gained  to  the  tower  by  a  flight  of  steps  surmounted 
by  an  oaken  door  studded  with  iron  nails. 

"  The  Nuns'  Tower,"  I  murmured,  as  we  walked 
down  the  cloister ;  "  how  came  the  place  to  receive 
that  name  ?  " 

"  Tradition  says  that  when  this  place  was  a  convent, 
nuns  who  broke  their  vow  of  virginity  were  tried  in 
this  tower  by  their  ecclesiastical  superiors — or,  if  you 
will,  inferiors — and  were  led  hence  by  a  subter 
ranean  passage  to  their  doom." 

"Which  was ?" 

"  Precipitation  down  a  deep  chasm.  The  book  I 
spoke  of  last  night — a  book  I  firmly  believe  to  have 
been  stolen,  and  not  mislaid — will  tell  you  more  about 
those  dark  days  than  I  can." 

On  reaching  the  foot  of  the  steps  leading  to  the 


209 


The  Weird  Picture 

tower,  we  mounted  them,  and,  having  tried  the  door, 
found  it  locked. 

"  It  would  have  been  strange,  indeed,"  smiled  the 
Baronet,  "  if  Angelo  had  left  his  studio  accessible." 

Bending  down  I  applied  my  eye  to  the  keyhole. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?  "  asked  my  uncle. 

"  It's  impossible  to  see  anything,"  I  returned. 
Something  dark  within — it  may  have  been  a  folding 
screen,  the  back  of  a  chair,  any  piece  of  furniture,  in 
fact — standing  immediately  behind  the  keyhole,  pre 
vented  me  from  obtaining  a  glimpse  of  the  interior. 

"  A  cold  cell  to  paint  in  during  the  depth  of  winter," 
remarked  my  uncle.  "  Does  he  work  without  a  fire  ?  " 

"  Scarcely,"  responded  the  Baronet.  "  A  servant 
makes  up  the  fire  every  morning,  and  brings  in  coal 
enough  to  last  the  day ;  but  Angelo  takes  good  care  to 
stand  by  all  the  time,  with  a  curtain  drawn  over  his 
easel,  and  his  artistic  paraphernalia  covered  by  a  cloth, 
and  does  not  begin  work  till  he  is  alone." 

The  concealment  displayed  by  Angelo  over  his  new 
work  of  art  made  me  only  the  more  curious  to  obtain 
a  glimpse  of  the  studio;  so  I  clambered  up  the  ivy 
towards  the  Gothic  casement,  and  peeped  through  its 
diamond  panes,  to  find  that  a  curtain  of  violet  silk  had 
been  drawn  across. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  I  called  out,  "  Angelo  takes 
precious  good  care  that  no  one  shall  discover  his  art- 
secret — if  secret  he  has.  There  is  a  piece  of  violet  silk 
stretched  across  the  casement !  " 

"  You  can't  open  the  window  and  get  in,  I  sup 
pose  ?  "  said  Sir  Hugh. 

Mounting  still  higher,  I  stepped  upon  the  window- 
sill,  and,  holding  on  to  a  mullion  by  my  left  hand, 
shook  the  casement  with  my  right ;  but  the  fastenings 


2IO 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

were  too  secure  to  permit  my  forcing  an  entrance, 
so  I  scrambled  down  again. 

"  He  hasn't  put  up  that  curtain  exactly  as  a  screen 
of  concealment,"  remarked  the  Baronet,  stepping  back 
wards  to  take  a  view  of  it.  "  In  this  new  picture  of 
his  the  amphitheatre,  so  he  tells  me,  is  represented  as 
being  partly  screened  from  the  glare  of  the  sun  by  a 
purple  velarium.  The  curtain  that  you  see  up  there 
faces  the  south.  Angelo  has  no  doubt  been  trying 
an  experiment :  studying  the  effect  of  violet-coloured 
rays  upon  the  sanded  floor ;  for  he  has  had  it  sanded," 
the  Baronet  explained,  "  to  make  it  resemble  the  pave 
ment  of  an  arena." 

If  Sir  Hugh  really  believed  that  this  was  the  reason 
why  Angelo  had  covered  up  the  window,  he  had 
greater  simplicity  than  I  gave  him  credit  for. 

As  we  were  turning  to  go  away,  my  unsatisfied  curi 
osity  induced  me  to  take  a  second  peep  through  the 
keyhole.  An  ejaculation  of  surprise  escaped  my  lips, 
and  I  rose  to  my  feet  in  perplexity. 

"  When  I  looked  through  the  keyhole  just  now, 
there  was  something  dark  within  that  prevented  me 
from  seeing  anything.  That  dark  something — what 
ever  it  was — has  vanished.  I  can  now  see  nothing  but 
a  white  surface." 

The  Baronet  and  my  uncle,  stooping  down  to  the 
keyhole,  satisfied  themselves  of  the  truth  of  the  last 
part  of  my  statement,  and  then  both  looked  at  me 
with  a  half-doubting  expression. 

"  There  is  something  white  in  front  of  the  door 
now,"  said  Sir  Hugh.  "  Are  you  certain  it  was  dark 
before  ?  " 

"  Quite  certain.    There's  some  one  inside." 

"  Can  Angelo  have  come  back  ?  "  the  Baronet  whis 
pered.  "  You  remember  he  said  at  breakfast  that  he 

211 


The  Weird  Picture 

might  finish  his  picture  within  a  few  hours.  Is  he  at 
work  now  ?  " 

This  idea  made  us  look  rather  mean.  It  is  not 
nice  to  be  caught  playing  the  spy  upon  a  man  in  his 
supposed  absence.  Only  the  oaken  door  separated  us 
from  the  cell  within,  so  that  the  artist,  if  he  were  there, 
must  have  overheard  our  suspicions  of  him.  We  all 
three  listened  with  our  ears  pressed  close  to  the  door, 
but  could  not  detect  the  faintest  sound  within. 

"  Angelo,  are  you  here  ?  "  cried  the  Baronet,  rapping 
on  the  door ;  "  we  have  come  to  see  how  the  picture 
is  going  on." 

There  was  no  reply,  and  all  our  words  and  knockings 
failed  to  evoke  any. 

"  You  must  have  made  a  mistake,  Frank,"  said  my 
uncle,  as  we  relinquished  our  efforts,  and  turned  to  go 
away." 

"  I  think  not,"  I  replied,  having  my  doubts  on  the 
matter  nevertheless. 

"  Angelo  can't  be  painting  now,"  remarked  Sir 
Hugh.  "  This  dim  twilight  would  not  permit  it. 
And  if  he  has  been  at  it  earlier  in  the  day,  his  fire  would 
surely  have  been  lit ;  but,"  glancing  back  and  pointing 
to  a  little  chimney-turret  on  the  battlemented  roof  of 
the  tower,  "  we  have  seen  no  smoke." 

"  Yes,"  returned  I ;  "  but  if  Angelo  wishes  to  keep 
his  presence  there  a  secret — and  secrecy  seems  to  be  a 
sine  qua  non  in  all  his  undertakings — he  won't  have  a 
fire." 

"  Well,  then  he'll  be  confoundedly  clever  if  his 
chilled  fingers  can  handle  the  brush  with  any  delicacy 
of  touch  in  this  cold  atmosphere,"  said  the  Baronet 
with  a  shiver,  for  the  air  was  extremely  damp  and  cold. 

"  Sir  Hugh,"  said  my  uncle,  "  if  you  are  certain 


212 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

that  the  picture  is  concealed  in  this  tower,  why  not 
force  an  entrance  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  -Baronet  doubtfully,  "  there  is 
just  the  possibility  that  it  may  not  be  there,  which 
would  be  rather  awkward ;  for  Angelo  on  his  return 
would  see  the  broken  lock,  and  learn  that  we  have  been 
playing  the  spy  on  him,  which  is  exactly  what  we  have 
been  doing,"  added  he  with  a  cynical  smile,  "  but 
there's  no  need  for  him  to  know  it." 

Evidently  the  Baronet  regarded  espionage  very 
much  as  the  ancient  Spartans  regarded  theft.  There 
was  no  dishonor  in  the  act — the  dishonor  consisted 
in  being  found  out. 

"  I  shall  tell  Angelo,"  Sir  Hugh  continued,  "  when 
he  returns,  that  as  we  have  thoroughly  examined  the 
Abbey,  including  the  apartments  allotted  to  my  guests, 
without  coming  upon  the  picture,  we  must,  in  com 
mon  fairness,  subject  even  his  sacred  studio  to  the 
same  investigation." 

"  And  supposing  he  refuses  to  submit  to  this  ?  "  said 
my  uncle. 

"  Then  I  shall  assert  my  authority  as  master  of 
Silverdale,  and  order  an  examination  of  the  tower. 
Ugh !  how  cold  it  is !  "  he  added.  "  Let  us  get  back  to 
the  library  fire.  I  feel  frozen." 

Twilight  was  coming  on  apace,  and  a  dim  silvery 
mist  was  gradually  veiling  the  landscape  from  our 
view  as  we  turned  to  enter  the  Abbey. 

My  visit  to  the  Nuns'  Tower  made  me  anxious  to 
learn  whether  the  artist  had  returned.  I  questioned 
some  of  the  servants  on  this  point,  but  none  of  them 
had  seen  Angelo  since  the  morning,  so  I  was  forced 
to  the  conclusion  that  I  had  been  mistaken  in  sup 
posing  any  one  to  have  been  in  the  tower. 

On  repairing  to  the  library  I  found  my  uncle  and  the 

213 


The  Weird  Picture 

Baronet  discussing  the  technicalities  of  some  Parlia 
mentary  Bill  of  the  past  session,  a  topic  that  was 
speedily  cut  short  by  the  entrance  of  Fruin,  the  butler, 
who  carried  under  his  arm  an  artist's  portfolio  filled 
with  papers  and  sketches. 

"  What  have  you  there,  Fruin  ?  "  said  the  Baronet. 

"  A  portfolio,  Sir  Hugh.  I  found  it  hidden  under 
some  leaves  in  one  of  the  vases  on  the  West  Terrace." 

"A  queer  hiding-place  for  it,"  remarked  the  Baronet, 
taking  the  portfolio  and  examining  it.  "  How  came  it 
there,  I  wonder.  Vasari's,  of  course.  He  was  show 
ing  the  ladies  some  sketches  this  morning  before  break 
fast,  and  suddenly  closed  the  portfolio  and  would  not 
allow  them  to  see  any  more.  He  said  they  must  be 
tired  of  them,  but  Florrie  declared  he  had  shut  it  up 
because  there  was  something  he  did  not  want  her  to 
see,  and  she  seized  the  portfolio  and  ran  off  with  it.  I 
suppose  she  must  have  hidden  it  where  you  found  it, 
Fruin.  Thank  you  for  bringing  it  here." 

The  butler  withdrew,  and  the  Baronet  pushed  the 
portfolio  over  to  me. 

"  Here  you  are,  Frank,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are  inter 
ested  in  Vasari's  sketches." 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  replied  carelessly,  and  then  a  thought 
struck  me.  "  Stop,  though !  You  say  Vasari  would 
not  let  all  of  them  be  seen.  More  secrecy.  What's 
the  game  this  time?  Let  me  try  to  find  out." 

I  drew  a  chair  to  the  table  and  began  to  examine 
the  contents  of  the  portfolio.  They  consisted  of 
sketches — ink,  pencil,  and  crayon — in  every  stage 
of  execution,  some  being  unfinished  outlines,  and 
others  finished  to  perfection.  They  embraced  a  vast 
variety  of  subjects — single  objects,  landscapes,  sketches 
for  historical  pieces,  and  copies  of  statuary  from 
the  antique.  Like  a  detective  seeking  for  evidence 

214 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

I  examined  each  sketch  suspiciously,  holding  it  near 
the  light  and  turning  it  over  to  see  whether  there 
was  any  mark  or  writing  on  the  back.  I  came  at 
last  to  twelve  sketches  of  different  heads,  and  un 
fastening  the  tape  that  kept  them  together,  I  laid  them 
out  on  the  table  and  drew  my  uncle's  attention  to  them. 

"  You  see  these  twelve  heads  ?  They  have  been  in 
this  portfolio  a  year,  for  Vasari  showed  them  to  me 
last  Christmas  and  asked  me  whether  I  recognised  any 
of  them.  As  a  fact  I  did  not,  but  I  fancied  at  the 
time  he  had  an  interested  motive  for  the  question,  and 
now  I  am  pretty  certain  he  had." 

My  uncle  looked  at  them  carefully. 

"  You  don't  see  a  likeness  to  any  one  you  know  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied. 

;<  Try  again." 

There  was  one  face  that  seemed  familiar.  It  was 
that  of  a  man  about  thirty  years  of  age,  but  the  head 
was  quite  bald,  and  the  face  destitute  of  beard  and 
moustache. 

"  I  may  have  seen  this  fellow,"  I  said.  "  I  seem 
to  have  a  faint  recollection  of  him." 

My  uncle  laughed. 

"  Your  recollections  of  your  brother  are  growing 
very  faint  indeed  if  you  do  not  recognize  that  face. 
Can't  you  see  that  it  is  George  ?  " 

"  George?  "  I  cried. 

"  Yes.  That  is  George's  face,  minus  hair,  beard, 
and  moustache." 

Now  that  the  likeness  to  George  had  been  pointed 
out  I  could  see  it  clearly  enough,  but  the  absence  of 
all  hair  had  imparted  so  different  a  look  to  the  face 
that  I  doubt  whether  I  myself  would  ever  have  dis 
covered  it. 

"  And  why  the  deuce  should  he  sketch  George  like 

215 


The  Weird  Picture 

that?"  I  asked,  thoroughly  perplexed.  "I  remember 
how  relieved  he  seemed  when  I  did  not  recognise  it." 

"  Can't  say,"  replied  my  uncle.  "  It's  another  of 
those  little  mystifications  which  he  delights  to  put 
upon  his  friends.  By  the  way,  wasn't  Csesar  bald,  and 
beardless?  " 

"  'Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head/  "  I 
murmured.  "  Yes,  at  the  time  of  his  death  he  was. 
But  I  don't  quite  see  the  relevancy  of  your  remark." 

"  Merely  a  passing  thought,"  he  said  lightly.  "  It's 
not  much  of  a  portrait  of  George ;  it's  like  him,  and 
yet  not  like  him.  And  there  is  a  most  uncanny  expres 
sion  about  the  eyes." 

He  threw  aside  the  sketch,  which  the  Baronet  took 
up.  As  soon  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  it  a  half-repressed 
exclamation  escaped  his  lips,  and  setting  his  gold- 
rimmed  glasses  upon  his  nose  he  took  a  long  and  care 
ful  look  at  the  drawing. 

"Do  you  say  this  is  Captain  Willard?"  he  asked, 
elevating  his  eyebrows  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied.    "  That  is  my  brother." 

"  He  is  a  handsome  man,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  studying 
the  sketch  as  if  it  were  some  puzzle  offered  to  him 
for  solution. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  have  never  seen  Captain  Willard  in  my  life," 
he  replied,  laying  aside  the  drawing. 

It  would  have  been  wrong  to  doubt  his  word,  but 
if  any  one  else  had  spoken  in  the  same  curious,  halting 
way  I  should  have  hesitated  to  believe  him.  I  was 
on  the  point  of  asking  him  the  reason  of  his  evident 
surprise,  when  my  attention  was  caught  by  a  series 
of  remarkable  drawings  that  my  uncle  had  just  taken 
out  of  the  portfolio.  There  were  completed  sketches  of 


216 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

gravestones  and  monumental  pieces,  which  I  supposed 
had  been  drawn  by  Vasari  at  the  request  of  some 
cemetery  mason  in  want  of  new  designs,  or  else  were 
the  result  of  some  competition  at  an  art  school.  What 
ever  their  origin,  they  had  provided  Vasari  with  an 
opportunity  of  displaying  his  inventiveness  and  taste, 
and  the  result  was  a  collection  of  from  twenty  to 
thirty  funeral  monuments  of  various  graceful  shapes, 
decorated  with  broken  columns,  reversed  torches,  urns, 
crosses,  wreaths,  and  other  objects  emblematic  of 
death  and  immortality. 

But  what  interested  me  most  in  this  collection  was 
a  sort  of  grim  humour,  which  had  taken  the  shape  of 
placing  on  these  monuments  the  names  of  many  dis 
tinguished  men,  and  from  my  knowledge  of  the  artist's 
character,  I  readily  discerned  that  the  persons  thus  se 
lected  were  those  from  whose  opinions  he  differed. 
I  suppose  his  eccentricity  found  a  kind  of  pleasure  in 
thus  consigning  to  the  tomb  men  whom  he  disliked. 
Some  of  the  epitaphs  served  only  to  display  the  morbid 
vanity  of  the  man,  as,  for  instance : — 

"SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

FREDERICK,  LORD  LEIGHTON, 
p.  R.  A., 

WllO  WAS  SUCCEEDED  IN  THE  PRESIDENTIAL  CHAIR 

BY  THE  EQUALLY  EMINENT  IF  NOT 

SUPERIOR  ARTIST, 

ANGELO  VASARI:" 

A  future  Walpole  in  search  of  "  Anecdotes  of  Paint 
ing  "  must  not  overlook  the  following  curious  inci 
dent  : — 


217 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  IN  MEMORIAM, 

ALMA  TADEMA, 

THE  STAR  AMONG  ARTISTS, 

WHO  DIED  WITH  GRIEF  AT  THE  ECLIPSE  OF  HIS  NAME 
BY  THE  RISING  SUN, 

ANGELO  VASARI." 

"  Egad !  "  said  the  Baronet,  who  was  looking  on 
with  the  half-abstracted  air  that  he  had  displayed 
since  the  discovery  of  George's  likeness.  "  I  don't 
wonder  he  shut  the  portfolio  up  when  he  came  to  this 
exhibition  of  his  vanity.  What  a  conceited  fool  the 
fellow  is ! " 

Casually  turning  over  the  rest  of  these  drawings, 
we  came  upon  the  following  singular  epitaph,  inscribed 
on  a  monument  crowned  with  a  piece  of  sculpture  rep 
resenting  the  Crucifixion : 

"  To  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  SUBLIME 
GIOTTO, 

WHO,  IN  HIS  ZEAL  FOR  ART, 
SET  AT  DEFIANCE  THOSE  FANTASTIC  NOTIONS  WHICH 

CASUISTS  CALL  MORALITY, 
AND  WHOSE  EXAMPLE  INSPIRED  THE  GENIUS  OF 

ANGELO  VASARI, 
WlTH  THE  IDEA  THAT  GAVE  BIRTH  TO  THAT  NOBLE 

MASTERPIECE, 
'  THE  FALL  OF  CESAR.'  " 

"  Giotto  ?     Giotto  ?  "   repeated  the   Baronet  with  a 
thoughtful  air.    "  He  means  the  Giotto,  of  course." 
"  Without  doubt,"  responded  my  uncle.    "  But  what 

218 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

does  he  mean  by  the  words,  '  setting-  at  defiance  those 
fantastic  notions  which  casuists  call  morality?'' 

"  Can't  say,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Sir  Hugh.  "  I'm 
not  sufficiently  versed  in  Giotto's  history  to  understand 
the  allusion.  But  perhaps  Frank  can  explain  it." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  I'm  exactly  in  your  position," 
I  returned. 

"  Learned  gentlemen  we  are !  "  laughed  the  Baronet ; 
and  then,  after  a  brief  interval  of  silence,  he  con 
tinued  : 

"  I  would  like  to  know  what  this  allusion  is — for  a 
reason,"  he  added  in  a  grave  tone.  "  It  refers  un 
doubtedly  to  some  incident  in  Giotto's  career ;  if  we 
knew  what  this  incident  was,  it  might  furnish  us  with 
a  clue  to  the  mystery  that  surrounds  the  production  of 
Angelo's  picture." 

"  Well,  let  us  try  to  solve  the  enigma,"  said  I,  going 
to  a  bookcase,  and  taking  therefrom  a  volume  entitled 
The  History  of  Early  Italian  Art.  "  Here's  a  book 
that  is  sure  to  contain  a  biography  of  Giotto." 

I  turned  to  the  index,  and  having  found  the  pages 
referring  to  Giotto,  I  glanced  hastily  over  the  biog 
raphy  of  the  great  "  Fa  Presto,"  stopping  now  and 
then  to  read  aloud,  for  the  edification  of  the  Baronet 
and  my  uncle,  some  item  that  I  deemed  worthy  of 
notice.  At  length,  in  the  course  of  my  reading,  I  came 
to  the  following  passage  : 

"  A  horrible  story  is  told  in  connexion  with  his 
picture  of  '  The  Crucifixion.'  It  is  said  that  Giotto 
persuaded  the  man  who  acted  as  his  model  to  be  tied 
to  a  cross,  and  while  in  this  helpless  state  he  stabbed 
him,  in  order  that  he  might  be  the  better  enabled  to 
limn  with  ghastly  fidelity  the  dying  agonies  of  the 
Saviour." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  said  I,  looking  up 

219 


The  Weird  Picture 

from  my  reading.  "  If  that  isn't  setting  morality  at 
defiance,  what  is  ?  " 

"  You've  hit  on  it,"  said  the  Baronet.  '  That's 
the  story  Angelo's  alluding  to,  for  see !  he  has  put  the 
Crucifixion  scene  on  the  tomb.  But  what  does  he 
call  Giotto's  deed  ?  "'A  zeal  for  art  ? '  Surely  he 
doesn't  approve  this  horrible  act?" 

"  It  would  seem  so  from  his  language,"  I  returned 
blankly. 

" '  Whose  example,' "  said  the  Baronet,  reading 
from  the  epitaph,  and  tracing  the  words  with  his  fore 
finger,  "  '  inspired  the  genius  of  Angelo  Vasari  with 
the  idea  that  gave  birth  to  that  noble  masterpiece, 
"  The  Fall  of  Caesar."  '  What  can  he  mean,  Leslie?  " 
he  continued,  addressing  my  uncle.  "  Not,"  he  added 
with  a  grim  smile,  "  that  he,  too,  stabbed  his  model  for 
the  sake  of  an  artistic  effect.  That  would  be  too  much 
of  a  joke,  to  murder  a  man  for  the  sake  of  producing 
a  realistic  picture.  And  yet,"  he  concluded  with  a  per 
plexed  air,  "  that's  the  only  meaning  one  can  give  to 
his  words." 

He  stared  uneasily  at  my  uncle,  who  stared  uneasily 
at  me. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think  if  it,"  said  my  uncle. 
"  He  certainly  seems  to  approve  Giotto's  act,  and 
intimates  that  he  copied  his  example  in  painting  his 
own  picture.  This  must  be  the  language  of  a  mad 
man  !  " 

"  There's  method  in  his  madness,  then,"  remarked 
the  Baronet.  "  He  had  wit  enough  to  hide  this  from 
the  ladies  this  morning." 

We  read  daily  of  terrible  murders  committed  by 
men  who  are  mere  names  to  us.  In  the  columns  of 
the  newspaper  such  crimes  do  not  seem  out  of  place — 
they  are  quite  natural ;  we  almost  look  for  them ;  but 

220 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

to  learn  that  a  person  within  our  own  circle — who  has 
sat  at  our  table,  and  is  on  familiar  terms  with  us — 
has  his  hands  stained  with  the  blood  of  his  fellow- 
man  ;  this  is  so  new  an  experience  that  we  can  not 
bring  ourselves  to  believe. 

For  a  long  time  we  sat  looking  at  each  other  in 
silent  surprise,  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  the 
singular  effusion  to  the  memory  of  Giotto. 

"  It  must  be,  it  must  be !  "  murmured  the  Baronet 
at  length.  "  It's  quite  clear  to  me  that  Angelo  stabbed 
his  model." 

"  No,  no,  it  can't  be !  "  exclaimed  my  uncle,  unable 
to  keep  his  chair  in  his  excitement,  and  nervously  pac 
ing  the  apartment.  "  You  do  not  really  think  that 
Angelo  \vould  murder  a  fellow-mortal  merely  to  pro 
duce  a  realistic  picture  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ? "  replied  the  Baronet  coolly,  as  if  the 
supposititious  act,  were  the  most  natural  one  in  the 
world.  "  Such  instances  have  occurred  in  the  history 
of  art — science,  too,  has  had  its  murders.  Did  not 
Vesalius  on  one  occasion  dissect  a  living  man?  From 
his  boyhood  Angelo  has  thirsted  for  fame  as  an  artist. 
His  long  line  of  early  failures,  therefore,  may  have 
had  the  effect  of  disturbing  his  mental  balance.  Con 
stant  brooding  over  the  neglect  offered  to  his  genius 
may  have  so  obliterated  the  line  that  divides  right 
from  wrong  as  to  have  led  him,  in  despair  of  obtaining 
success  by  any  other  method,  to  imitate  the  example 
of  Giotto." 

"  Good  God !  And  this  man  might  have  been  my 
son-in-law !  "  cried  my  uncle. 

"  Let  me  congratulate  you  upon  your  lucky  de 
liverance  from  such  a  relationship." 

"  If  Angelo  is  an  assassin,"  said  my  uncle,  "  who 
was  the  victim  ?  " 

221 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  That  is  the  question  which  the  picture  will  an 
swer." 

"  You  mean  that  Angelo  has  transferred  the  features 
of  the  dead  without  alteration  to  the  canvas  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  meaning — yes." 

"  And  yet,"  remonstrated  my  uncle,  "  he  exhibits 
fhis  picture  at  Paris  irf  a  public  gallery  open  to  all. 
^That  is  the  very  way  to  betray  himself." 

"  Exactly,  if  the  dead  man  were  a  well-known  per 
son,  which  probably  he  was  not." 

I  sat  silent,  revolving  in  my  mind  the  whole  history 
of  the  strange  picture,  as  I  was  by  no  means  dis 
posed  to  accept  the  Baronet's  theory  that  Angelo  was 
an  actual  assassin.  I  remembered  the  date  assigned 
by  the  artist  for  the  completion  of  his  work.  It 
was  Christmas  Day — the  day  of  my  brother's  depar 
ture  for  the  Continent.  I  recalled  the  red  stain  on 
his  vest.  Could  it  be  that  both  George  and  Angelo 
were  concerned  in  a  murder?  But  why  should  one 
remain  and  the  other  become  a  fugitive?  Was  it  the 
more  guilty  of  the  two  that  had  fled  ?  and  had  Angelo 
for  his  own  purpose  simply  taken  advantage  of  a  deed 
that  George  alone  had  committed?  Was  the  officer 
who  had  caused  the  fracas  in  the  Vasari  Gallery  at 
Paris  none  other  than  George,  who,  angry  with  the 
artist  for  having  painted  a  picture  that  might  lead  to 
the  detection  of  the  crime,  had  attempted  to  destroy  it. 
Was  the  silver-haired  old  man — Matteo  Caritio — an 
accessory  to  the  deed?  Touched  with  remorse,  had 
he  confessed  his  part  in  the  plot  to  the  priest  of 
Rivoli,  only  to  meet  with  death  a  day  later  at  the 
hand  of  the  man  whose  secret  he  had  betrayed  ? 

I  turned  to  listen  to  the  Baronet,  who  was  holding 
forth  to  my  uncle. 

"You  see  now,  Leslie,"  said  he,  "why  he  exercised 

222 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

such  secrecy  over  the  production  of  this  picture,  and 
why  he  kept  his  studio-door  locked  while  painting  it. 
It  was  because  the  model  that  he  painted  from,  the 
model  for  his  fallen  Caesar,  was,  in  point  of  fact,  a  dead 
man." 

My  uncle's  reply  was  startling  in  its  suggestiveness : 

''  That  may  have  been  the  reason  why  he  kept  his 
studio-door  locked  then ;  but  why  does  he  keep  it 
locked  now  ? " 

"Yes — over  this  new  picture  of  the  girl-martyr?" 
said  I. 

The  Baronet  had  not  considered  this  point. 

"  Why  —  does  —  he  —  keep  — his  —  door  —  locked 
—  now  ?  "  he  repeated,  pausing  in  a  curiously  delib 
erative  manner  between  each  word.  "  Ah,  why  ?  " 
He  made  a  long  pause.  "  Not  for  a  similar  reason, 
surely?  And  yet — "  he  made  another  long  pause. 
"  He  said  at  breakfast,  you  know,  that  he  might  finish 
his  picture  to-day.  He  was  playing  with  his  knife,  very 
curiously  at  the  time.  What  could  he  mean?  Good 
God !  what  could  he  mean  ?  Not  that — 

He  paused,  afraid  to  give  utterance  to  his  suspicions. 
For  a  few  moments  we  durst  not  speak,  for  a  dim 
presentiment  of  some  awful  tragedy  to  come  had 
stolen  over  us. 

The  Baronet  was  the  first  to  break  silence. 

"  That  tower  must  be  watched  to-night,"  he  said 
in  a  hoarse  voice. 

"  Sir  Hugh,"  said  my  uncle  sternly,  "  if  Angelo  be 
the  fiend  you  think  him,  he  must  be  arrested  at  once." 

"  That  will  require  a  magistrate's  warrant,"  I  said. 

"  Right ;  and  we  will  procure  it  without  delay,"  ob 
served  the  Baronet,  rising.  "  Colonel  Montague  is  the 
nearest  magistrate.  He  lives  at  the  Manse — five  miles 


223 


The  Weird  Picture 

from  here.  The  carriage  can  take  us  there  and  back  in 
an  hour,  and — 

His  further  words  were  checked  by  the  sudden  ap 
pearance  of  Fruin,  who,  without  having  waited  to 
knock,  entered  the  room,  and,  brimful  of  excitement, 
cried : 

"  I've  found  the  picture,  Sir  Hugh !  " 

"  The  devil  you  have !    Where  on  earth  was  it  ?  " 

"  In  the  Nuns'  Tower,  to  be  sure !  " 

"  The  Nuns'  Tower !  How  did  you  manage  to  get 
in  there?" 

Fruin's  manner  changed  at  once  from  excitement 
to  soberness. 

"  Well,  Sir  Hugh,"  he  began  with  the  air  of  a 
penitent,  "  it  was  wrong,  I  admit,  to  play  the  spy  on 
a  gentleman,  but — but —  It's  this  way,  you  see.  I 
have  always  been  suspicious  of  Mr.  Vasari  and  his  do 
ings,  so — so  that's  how  it  was,  you  know.  I  haven't 
been  doing  exactly  what's  right,  but  —  but  —  you 
see " 

He  hesitated  and  stammered  so  much  that  the  im 
patient  Baronet,  with  a  deprecatory  wave  of  his  hand, 
cried : 

"  There,  there,  go  on.  I  forgive  beforehand  every 
thing  you've  done  in  consideration  of  your  having 
found  the  picture." 

Highly  gratified  by  this  plenary  indulgence,  the 
butler  began  again  in  a  more  confident  tone : 

"  Well,  Sir  Hugh,  you  remember  that  Mr.  Vasari 
hadn't  been  here  a  week  before  I  said  to  you,  '  That 
Italian  gentleman  has  come  here  for  no  good  ? ' : 

"  I  remember  it,  Fruin ;  and  I  told  you  not  to  pass 
remarks  on  my  visitors." 

"  So  you  did,  Sir  Hugh,  so  you  did,"  replied  the 
butler,  nodding,  as  if  the  reprimand  were  a  decided 

224 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

compliment ;  "  and  I  went  off  in  a  huff,  determined 
to  keep  my  own  counsel  for  the  future ;  determined, 
too,  in  spite  of  your  rebuff,  Sir  Hugh,  to  keep  a  watch 
ful  eye  on  the  foreign  gentleman.  Foreigners  are  al 
ways  suspicious  characters,"  he  added  digressively. 
"What  first  made  me  suspicious  of  Mr.  V.,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  was  your  telling  me  that  he  had  chosen  the 
Nuns'  Tower  as  a  studio.  Why  couldn't  he  take  a 
nice  cheerful  room  in  the  Abbey,  and  not  that  cold 
stone  cell?  'You've  got  a  motive  for  living  in  that 
place/  I  thought  to  myself.  '  You're  up  to  something 
queer,  and  you  want  to  get  as  far  away  from  us  as 
you  can,  so  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  overhear  any 
thing.'  Then,  when  I  learned  that,  with  the  exception 
of  Adams,  who  lights  the  fire  in  the  morning,  no  one 
must  enter  his  studio,  not  even  you,  Sir  Hugh,  I 
grew  more  suspicious  still.  '  What's  your  little 
game?'  I  thought.  Why,  do  you  know,  I've  looked 
out  of  my  bedroom  window  at  one,  two,  and  three  in 
the  morning,  and  I've  seen  a  light  burning  in  the 
tower!  What's  he  doing  there  at  that  unearthly  hour? 
He  can't  be  painting.  No  one  paints  by  lamplight. 
I've  long  had  a  desire  to  have  a  peep  in  at  that  tower, 
to  learn  what  goes  on  there  ;  and  so  the  other  day,  when 
Mr.  Vasari  had  gone  to  London,  I  got  the  blacksmith 
to  examine  the  lock  of  the  door  for  the  purpose  of  mak 
ing  a  key  to  fit  it.  Here  it  is,"  he  continued,  holding 
it  aloft  on  his  forefinger.  "  I  received  it  only  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  ago,  but  as  soon  as  I  got  it  I  went  at  once 
to  the  tower  to  have  a  look  at  the  place  before  Mr. 
Vasari  should  return.  Brown  and  Tompkins  were 
with  me,  carrying  dark  lanterns.  We  tried  the  key, 
and  the  door  opened  easily.  Brown  and  Tompkins 
didn't  like  to  enter — they  were  afraid — so  they  stood 
at  the  head  of  the  steps  and  turned  the  light  of  their 


The  Weird  Picture 

bull's-eye  into  the  place,  for  of  course  it  was  quite 
dark,  while  I  went  in.  I  looked  round — there  was  no 
one  there — and  while  looking  round,  my  eye  was 
caught  by  something  peeping  out  from  under  the 
fringe  of  tapestry.  I  lifted  the  curtain,  and  there  was 
the  picture  behind  the  tapestry,  reared  up  against  the 
wall." 

He  paused,  out  of  breath,  for  he  had  been  talking 
very  fast. 

"  It  was  well  for  you  that  Angelo  was  not  there," 
remarked  the  Baronet  gravely,  and  speaking  with  a 
knowledge  of  the  artist's  character  gained  only  within 
the  past  few  minutes.  "  He  might  have  resented  your 
intrusion  with  a  pistol-shot.  He's  quite  capable  of 
it." 

"  Ah !  that  he  is,"  cried  the  old  servant,  surprised 
and  delighted  to  find  his  master  coming  round  to  his 
way  of  thinking —  "  that  he  is !  Angelo  may  be  his 
name,  but  Devilo  would  suit  him  better,  and  so  would 
you  say,  Sir  Hugh,  if  you  had  seen  his  face  this  morn 
ing  when  you  were  accusing  us  servants — us!"  pro 
tested  Fruin,  emphasizing  the  word  with  some  dignity, 
"  of  stealing  the  picture.  I  was  watching  him,  and  if 
you  could  have  seen  his  wicked  looks  and  the  sparkle 
of  his  eyes  you  wouldn't  have  wondered  at  that  girl's 
fright.  Others  of  us  noticed  his  manner,  but  we  didn't 
like  to  speak  out.  I  am  certain  he  was  laughing  in 
his  sleeve  at  you,  Sir  Hugh,  and  saying  to  himself, 
'  Don't  you  wish  you  may  find  the  picture  again ! ' 
It  struck  me  at  the  time  that  it  was  he  who  had  re 
moved  it." 

I  interposed  with  a  question  which  I  was  burning 
to  put : 

"  What  did  you  see  in  the  studio  besides  the  pic 
ture  ?  " 

226 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

"  I  was  so  delighted  at  finding  the  picture  that  I 
didn't  stop  to  examine  the  place,  but  hurried  here  at 
once  to  tell  Sir  Hugh  of  my  discovery." 

"  But  you  couldn't  enter  the  place  without  seeing 
something  of  it,"  I  persisted.  "  Tell  us  anything  you 
did  see.  What's  the  place  like  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  there  was  the  usual  furniture — the  table 
and  the  chairs  of  carved  oak.  The  walls  and  floor 
are  of  stone,  you  know.  There's  tapestry  round  the 
walls,  and  the  floor  is  covered  with  yellow  sand — why. 
I  don't  know.  It's  a  whim  of  his,  I  suppose.  There 
was  an  easel  with  a  picture  on  it,  which  I  didn't  look 
at,  brushes,  paints,  palettes,  and  things  of  that  sort 
on  the  table,  and — and  that's  all  I  can  remember,"  he 
added. 

"Did  you  see  nothing  more?"  I  asked.  "Where 
was  the  artist's  model  that  Angelo  spoke  of  at  break 
fast  this  morning — the  lay  figure  that  he  paints  from  ?  " 

"  I  saw  nothing  resembling  a  lay  figure.  But  then 
I  wasn't  in  the  place  above  a  few  seconds,  and  it  was 
in  half-darkness  all  the  time." 

"  Is  '  The  Fall  of  Csesar '  damaged  in  any  way  ?  " 
asked  the  Baronet. 

"  Not  in  the  least,  Sir  Hugh." 

"  What  have  you  done  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  told  Brown  and  Tompkins  to  carry  it  to  the 
gallery." 

"  Quite  right.  Place  it  somewhere  in  the  gallery — 
anywhere  will  do  for  the  present.  See  that  it's  done, 
Fruin,  and  then  lock  the  place  up  and  bring  the  keys 
here.  Give  me  the  key  of  the  Nuns'  Tower.  I  will 
examine  that  place  to-night  myself." 

Fruin,  laying  the  key  down  on  the  table,  departed 
on  his  errand. 


227 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  I'm  off  to  the  gallery,"  said  I,  preparing  to  follow 
the  butler ;  "  I  must  see  that  picture." 

"  No,  no,  not  now,"  said  the  Baronet  authoritatively, 
and  laying  a  restraining  hand  upon  my  arm.  "  Time 
flies,  and  every  moment  is  of  value.  Never  mind  the 
gallery  for  the  present,  unless  you  wish  Angelo  to 
escape  us.  I  want  you  to  take  up  your  station  at 
the  entrance-hall  of  the  Abbey,  so  as  to  be  ready  to 
'  shadow  '  Angelo  the  moment  he  returns.  Keep  a 
watchful  eye  on  him,  for  should  he  overhear  that 
the  picture  is  found — and  I  daresay  the  servants  are 
talking  of  nothing  else  at  this  present  moment — he 
will  be  sure  to  seek  safety  in  flight,  knowing  well  that 
his  crime  is  discovered.  Detain  him  at  the  Abbey 
by  every  means  in  your  power  till  we  return  with  a 
constable  and  the  warrant  for  his  arrest.  Should  he 
show  a  disposition  to  bolt,  give  the  servants  orders 
to  seize  him.  Don't  hesitate ;  I  will  take  the  responsi 
bility." 

"  Supposing  the  guests  should  return  without  him, 
what  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Then  you  may  depend  upon  it  that  he  has  fled. 
In  that  case,  off  to  the  railway-station  at  once ;  make 
use  of  my  name ;  telegraph  a  description  of  him  to  the 
Chief  Constable  of  Penzance:  say  that  a  warrant  is 
out  for  his  arrest ;  and  you  may  be  in  time  to  check 
his  flight.  Come,  Leslie." 

"  Stay  a  minute !  "  I  cried,  as  both  moved  towards 
the  door.  "  What  will  the  warrant  charge  Angelo 
with  ?  " 

"  With  murder,  of  course." 

"  Stop !  How  can  a  warrant  for  murder  be  issued 
r.gainst  a  man  unless  you  know  the  name  of  the  vic 
tim?" 

"  But  I  do  know  the  name  of  the  victim." 

228 


What  the  Artist's  Portfolio  Revealed 

"  What !  "  I  cried  in  amazement.  "'  You  do  ?  How 
have  you  found  out  ?  Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  You  yourself  have  told  me." 

And  with  these  words — a  complete  enigma  to  me — 
the  Baronet  darted  off,  accompanied  by  my  uncle, 
who  looked  every  whit  as  bewildered  as  myself. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  going  to  the  hall,  there  to 
await  Angelo,  when  Fruin  came  into  the  room. 

"  Has  Sir  Hugh  gone  out?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  but  only  for  a  little  while,"  I  answered.  "  Do 
you  want  him  particularly?  " 

"  Only  to  give  him  these  keys,"  the  butler  replied, 
laying  them  on  a  table. 

"  Have  you  put  the  picture  back  in  the  gallery  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  stood  it  on  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
hall.  Mr.  Vasari  must  be  very  strong  to  have  been 
able  to  carry  it  off  by  himself.  It  takes  two  of  us 
to  lift  it." 

"  Ah  !  Have  the  company  returned  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  they  will  not  be  back  for  a  long  time." 

"Why,  how's  that?" 

"  We've  just  had  a  boy  from  the  vicarage  to  say  so. 
Miss  Wyville  has  persuaded  them  all  to  accompany  the 
church  choir  in  a  round  of  carol  singing." 

I  found  the  news  particularly  agreeable.  Sir  Hugh 
could  now  procure  the  warrant  without  Angelo's  hav 
ing  any  idea  of  what  was  in  store  for  him,  and  I  should 
have  ample  time  to  study  the  weird  picture  and  to 
examine  the  interior  of  the  Nuns'  Tower,  two  occupa 
tions  in  which  I  resolved  to  have  no  companion.  A 
vague  feeling  of  peril  gave  a  charm  to  the  idea.  I 
did  not  know  what  form  the  peril  might  take,  but  de 
termined  to  be  prepared  for  it  in  any  shape,  I  took  the 
liberty  of  borrowing  a  brace  of  loaded  pistols  which 
Sir  Hugh  kept  in  a  drawer  of  his  writing-table. 

229 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  One  for  the  ghost  in  the  gallery,"  I  said  cheer 
fully  to  myself  as  I  slipped  it  into  my  hip  pocket, 
"  and  one  for  the  artist  in  the  studio,"  and  I  slipped 
the  second  into  the  other  hip  pocket.  "  And  now  for 
the  masterpiece." 


230 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    MYSTERIES   OF  THE   STUDIO 

TAKING  up  a  lighted  candle  and  the  keys  both 
of   the   tower   and   of   the    picture    gallery,    I 
directed  my  steps  towards  the  latter  place.     It 
was  situated  at  some  distance  from  the  library,  and,  the 
house  being  new  to  me,  I  had  some  difficulty  in  find 
ing  it. 

In  the  distance  the  sound  of  jovial  carols  told  me 
that  in  the  servants'  quarters  due  homage  was  being 
paid  to  the  spirit  of  the  season.  Floating  faintly 
along  the  corridors  came  the  snatches  of  a  refrain — 

"  Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 
My  merry,  merry  boys, 

The  Christmas  log  to  the  firing; 
While  my  old  dame  she 
Bids  you  all  be  free, 

And  drink  to  your  hearts'  desiring." 

I  hummed  over  a  few  bars  myself  as  I  made  my 
way  along. 

At  last,  after  losing  my  way  several  times,  I  stood 
in  front  of  the  thick  oaken  door  that  I  knew  to  be 
the  entrance  of  the  picture-gallery.  Half-a-dozen  keys 
inserted  into  the  lock  one  after  another  failed  to  open 
the  door.  The  seventh  caused  the  steel  tongue  to 
spring  back  with  a  sharp  click.  I  was  on  the  point  of 
turning  the  handle  when  a  sound  on  the  other  side  ar 
rested  my  act.  A  moment's  reflection  induced  me 
to  believe  that  it  was  merely  the  night  breeze  sighing 

231 


The  Weird  Picture 

through  the  elms  and  yews  outside,  but  in  my  first 
start  I  had  likened  it  to  human  footsteps  stealing  softly 
away  from  the  door.  So  strongly  had  I  been  im 
pressed  with  this  fancy  that  I  had  at  once  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock  again,  so  as  to  keep  two  inches 
of  solid  oak,  at  least,  between  me  and  the  something 
on  the  other  side. 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  always  considered  myself 
fairly  brave,  but  I  now  began  to  question  my  right 
to  the  title.  Should  I  return  whence  I  came,  safe 
in  limb,  sane  in  mind,  but  baffled  in  my  quest  by  my 
own  fears,  or  should  I  invite  one  of  the  servants  to 
accompany  me  ?  No !  I  determined  to  venture  by 
myself.  What  a  fine  thing  it  would  be,  if,  alone  and 
unaided,  I  should  succeed  in  solving  the  mystery  that 
gave  this  chamber  the  reputation  of  being  haunted !  I 
should  be  the  hero  of  the  hour,  eclipsing  all  the  male 
guests  of  Silverdale  and  receiving  the  smiles  and 
praises  of  the  women.  While  the  men  were  singing 
carols  at  a  safe  distance,  I  should  have  been  keeping 
a  solitary  vigil  in  a  moonlit  hall  surrounded  by  ghostly 
perils.  Vanity  rather  than  courage  inspired  me  to  pro 
ceed. 

I  could  still  hear  the  carolling  of  the  servants, 
and  the  sound,  remote  though  it  was,  gave  me  a 
sense  of  safety.  Once  more  I  turned  the  key,  and 
then  flung  wide  the  door.  Before  entering,  I  gazed 
down  the  gallery,  but  no  sound  came  from  it  now,  and 
nothing  moving  was  to  be  seen. 

It  was  a  superb  night.  The  moon  was  at  the  full, 
and  its  bright  rays,  falling  upon  the  tall  casements, 
flung  parallelograms  of  light  across  the  polished  oak 
flooring,  causing  the  gallery  to  present  a  chequered  ap 
pearance,  silver  alternating  with  ebony  in  regular  per 
spective.  A  more  weird  place  to  spend  a  night  in 

232 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

could  hardly  be  imagined,  and  I  quite  forgave  the  serv 
ants  for  believing  it  to  be  haunted.  Mailed  warriors 
and  mounted  knights  shimmered  in  the  moonlight  ap 
parently  on  the  point  of  starting  into  life  and  action ; 
the  eyes  of  the  portraits  on  the  walls  seemed  to  stare 
at  me  with  a  marvellous  resemblance  to  those  of  human 
beings ;  mysterious  shapes  seemed  to  be  lurking  in  the 
alcoves,  whispering  and  pointing  at  me  as  I  advanced 
with  beating  heart. 

I  had  not  taken  more  than  ten  steps  when  the  great 
door  swung  to  on  its  hinges  with  a  clang  that  gave  me 
a  sudden  start  and  called  forth  strange  echoes  from 
the  gallery. 

There  is  nothing  remarkable  in  the  clanging  of  a 
door,  if  it  be  due  merely  to  a  current  of  air  or  to 
automatic  action ;  but  when  neither  of  these  causes 
is  in  operation  it  is  apt  to  create  an  uneasy  sensation, 
especially  when,  as  in  the  present  instance,  it  is  accom 
panied  by  what  sounds  very  like  a  laugh,  coming  it  is 
impossible  to  say  whence. 

I  felt  afraid  almost  to  turn  round  to  discover  the 
author  of  the  laugh,  but  when  I  had  turned  and 
could  perceive  nothing  to  justify  my  belief  that  it 
was  a  laugh,  I  was  equally  afraid  to  turn  the  other 
way,  and  so  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  for  a  few 
moments,  not  wishing  to  retire,  nor  yet  overbold  to  go 
forward. 

At  length,  despite  the  frowning  faces  of  the  portraits 
on  the  walls  and  the  threatening  lances  of  the 
knights,  I  advanced,  with  one  hand  on  the  pistol  in 
my  pocket.  I  could  have  wished  myself  for  the  time 
being  one  of  those  students  of  the  black  art  who,  suc 
cessfully  passing  through  the  fabled  hall  in  Padua,  are 
said  never  afterwards  to  have  cast  a  shadow;  for,  as  I 
moved  before  the  moonlit  casements,  a  black  shape 

233 


The  Weird  Picture 

moved  with  me  along  the  floor  of  the  hall,  and  when 
I  had  passed  out  of  the  moonlight,  the  candle  I  carried 
in  my  trembling  hand  caused  the  shadow  to  start  up 
on  the  adjacent  wall  as  though  it  were  some  sable 
familiar  attendant  on  my  movements. 

In  the  middle  of  the  gallery,  upon  a  small  table 
and  reared  up  against  the  wall,  I  could  perceive  in 
a  massive  frame  a  large  picture,  which  I  took  to  be 
the  thing  I  was  in  quest  of,  but  before  I  had  got  near 
enough  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  it  an  unfortunate  acci 
dent  occurred.  I  dropped  my  candle,  and  the  moon  at 
this  moment  being  obscured  by  clouds,  I  was  left  in 
darkness. 

The  superstitious  fancies  of  my  overwrought  mind 
were  for  the  moment  overcome  by  the  annoyance  I 
felt  at  being  thus  baffled  on  the  edge  of  discovery. 
Here  was  I  at  last  standing  before  Angelo's  great 
picture,  the  picture  that  had  lifted  him  to  fame,  the 
picture  that  some  critics  had  assigned  to  a  hand  other 
than  his,  the  picture  he  had  been  so  anxious  to  conceal 
from  my  view,  the  picture  whose  principal  figure  the 
Baronet  averred  was  copied  from  the  murdered  dead, 
the  picture  whose  figure,  so  the  servants  whispered, 
had  the  power  of  descending  from  the  canvas,  and  yet 
beyond  the  fact  of  its  size  I  was  precluded  by  the  dark 
ness  from  learning  anything  about  it. 

It  stood  glimmering  faintly  through  the  gloom,  and 
eluding  my  power  to  penetrate  its  secret.  I  strained 
my  eyes  to  the  utmost,  and  after  a  time  they  became 
accustomed  to  the  darkness ;  but  all  I  could  discern  on 
the  canvas  were  two  figures,  one  erect,  the  other 
prostrate,  both  which  seemed  to  be  returning  my  stare 
like  faces  in  a  mirror.  Faint  whisperings  seemed  to 
be  trembling  on  the  air  around,  and  more  than  once 
I  thought  I  heard  a  subdued  laugh. 

234 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

I  passed  my  hand  over  the  canvas,  not  without  the 
weird  fancy  that  it  might  be  seized  in  a  cold  clasp. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  my  sense  of  touch  did  not 
add  anything  to  my  knowledge. 

Just  as  I  was  preparing  to  return  for  another  candle 
the  moon  emerged  triumphantly  from  an  array  of 
defiant  clouds,  and  its  light,  increasing  almost  to  the 
brightness  of  day,  enabled  me  to  obtain  a  clear  view  of 
the  picture. 

My  first  feeling  was  one  of  disappointment. 

What  I  had  expected  to  see  I  do  not  quite  know : 
something  alarming,  probably. 

There  was,  however,  nothing  alarming  on  the  canvas 
before  me.  It  was  a  painting  that  Gerome  himself 
might  have  been  proud  to  own,  so  classic  and  finished 
was  its  character.  Indeed,  I  cannot  give  a  better 
idea  of  it  than  by  saying  that  in  the  pose  of  the  two 
figures,  and  in  the  arrangement  of  the  details,  it  bore 
a  considerable  resemblance  to  the  work  of  that  great 
master  on  the  same  subject,  save  that  in  Angelo's  com 
position  the  figures  of  the  conspirators  were  wanting. 

The  principal  features  of  the  picture  (to  quote  the 
language  of  the  Standard  correspondent)  were :  "  The 
fallen  Caesar  with  his  toga  wrapped  partly  round  him, 
the  statue  of  Pompey  rising  above,  a  tesselated  pave 
ment  stained  with  blood,  here  and  there  a  discarded 
dagger,  columnar  architecture  in  the  back-ground : 
such  were  the  simple  elements  presented  by  this  chef- 
d'oeuvre." 

I  fell  back  a  pace  or  two  to  contemplate  the  picture 
as  a  whole,  and,  despite  my  dislike  of  the  artist,  I 
could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  admiration  for  the  man 
who  had  produced  such  a  masterpiece. 

Desirous  of  verifying  the  Baronet's  suspicion  that 
the  picture  might  reveal  to  me  something  that  would 

235 


The  Weird  Picture 

be  entirely  passed  over  by  others,  I  proceeded  to  ex 
amine  it  in  detail. 

I  first  directed  my  attention  to  the  statue  of  Pompey, 
and  saw  that  Angelo  had  given  his  own  regular  and 
haughty  features  to  this  figure,  which  was  represented 
as  being  crowned  with  a  laurel-wreath,  and  armed 
with  spear  and  shield.  The  centre  of  this  shield  was 
set  with  the  helmeted  head  of  Minerva — a  gem  of 
minute  painting — and  it  required  no  second  glance 
to  tell  me  that  the  face  of  the  goddess  was  simply 
a  miniature  portrait  of  Daphne.  The  Baronet  had 
never  made  any  reference  to  this  fact.  How  the  like 
ness  could  have  escaped  his  notice  was  a  marvel  to 
me.  Perhaps  a  lover's  eyes  were  more  discerning  than 
his. 

From  the  statue  of  Pompey  I  turned  my  attention  to 
the  figure  at  the  base  of  the  pedestal.  Angelo  had  not 
strictly  adhered  to  the  minutiae  of  history  in  this  por 
tion  of  his  picture,  for  he  had  given  a  full  view  of 
Caesar's  face  instead  of  veiling  it  in  the  folds  of  the 
toga. 

From  the  space  between  two  lofty  columns  there 
slanted  a  flood  of  sunshine,  painted  with  a  technique  so 
marvellous  that  the  beams  seemed  actually  to  quiver  on 
the  canvas.  In  fact,  so  beautifully  was  this  sunlight 
managed  that  I  was  impelled  to  touch  it  with  my  hand, 
almost  expecting  to  see  it  tinged  with  a  golden  hue. 
These  rays  formed  the  principal  beauty  of  the  picture, 
suffusing  the  dead  body  of  Caesar  with  a  transparent 
veil  of  light. 

The  bald  and  beardless  head  of  the  fallen  Dic 
tator  became  next  the  object  of  my  study. 

Standing  close  to  the  canvas,  my  eyes  could  detect 
nothing  but  a  confused  daub,  but  on  receding  grad 
ually  from  it  the  effect  was  curious,  not  to  say  startling. 

236 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

The  features  of  Caesar,  which  appeared  but  dim  and 
vague  at  first,  became  gradually  clearer  and  more 
distinct,  till  at  length  each  curve  and  every  line  of  the 
painted  countenance  stood  out  in  relief  through  the 
cascade  of  yellow  beams.  I  could  quite  forgive  the 
little  servant-girl  for  supposing  that  the  eyes  of  this 
figure  moved,  for  more  than  once  I  was  seized  with 
the  same  impression. 

The  thought,  suggested  by  the  epitaph  in  the  ar 
tist's  portfolio,  that  a  murdered  man  might  have  con 
tributed  to  the  deathlike  realism  displayed  by  this  face 
invested  it  with  a  weird  interest;  and  I  continued 
to  gaze  at  it  as  though  it  were  the  embalmed  head  of 
Orpheus,  celebrated  in  classic  legend,  whose  dead 
tongue  could  whisper  things  past  and  to  come.  The 
filmy,  glazed  eyes  fascinated  me  with  their  dreadful 
stare.  The  face  had  a  mournful,  surprised  expres 
sion — the  very  expression,  so  far  as  I  could  imagine 
(for  happily  I  am  no  judge  of  such  matters),  of  a 
man  who,  without  warning,  had  been  cut  off  out  of  the 
land  of  the  living.  It  was  not,  however,  the  face  that 
meets  us  in  the  coins  and  busts  of  art-galleries :  it 
seemed  to  have  a  much  more  familiar  look.  It  seemed 
a  face  well  known  to  me — one,  too,  that  I  had  seen  but 
recently. 

Minute  after  minute  passed,  and  still  I  stood  there 
contemplating  the  dead  face,  with  the  secret  conscious 
ness  that  ere  long  I  should  recognise  it.  A  sudden 
movement  on  my  part  to  the  left,  seemingly,  as  it  were, 
to  set  the  face  in  a  new  point  of  view,  caused  the  light 
of  knowledge  to  flash  into  my  mind. 

A  loud  cry  broke  from  me,  and  I  reeled  back  into 
the  middle  of  the  hall. 

For  my  brother's  face  was  staring  at  me  from  the 
canvas  in  lineaments  not  to  be  mistaken — in  linea- 

237 


The  Weird  Picture 

ments  so  startling  in  their  fidelity  to  the  original  that  I 
marvelled  how  I  could  have  failed  at  the  first  to  de 
tect  the  resemblance.  The  beard  and  hair  were  want 
ing  to  complete  the  likeness :  it  was  this  omission  that 
had  delayed  my  recognition  of  it,  just  as  it  had  pre 
vented  my  recognition  of  the  portrait  sketch  that  An- 
gelo  had  exhibited  to  me. 

Overwhelmed  with  amazement  I  stood  staring  at 
the  picture,  rooted  to  the  spot,  without  power  to  move 
from  it.  Whence  had  Angelo  derived  the  marvellous 
art  that  had  enabled  him  to  limn  my  brother's  face  so 
faithfully,  and  yet  to  transform  it  so  as  to  make  it  seem 
like  the  very  image  of  death? 

I  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  figure  of  Pompey  mounted 
on  his  lofty  pedestal,  and  as  I  gazed  at  the  proud 
face,  over  which  the  changing  moonbeams  seemed 
to  impart  a  smile  of  mockery,  the  picture  assumed  a 
new  and  terrible  significance.  An  ordinary  spectator 
might  regard  it  simply  as  a  splendid  work  of  art,  and 
see  in  it  nothing  more  than  was  implied  in  its  title — 
"  The  Fall  of  Caesar ;"  but  to  me,  familiar  with  the 
artist's  aspiration,  it  was  full  of  a  latent  symbolism 
expressive  of  his  hopes  at  the  time  of  painting  it.  It 
was  no  longer  the  conqueror  of  the  East  triumphing 
over  the  conqueror  of  the  West,  but  Angelo  in  his 
own  person  exulting  over  the  rival  whom  he  had 
slain.  The  laurel-wreath  on  his  brows  represented  the 
crown  of  fame  which  the  exhibition  of  this  very  picture 
was  to  bring  him;  and  the  setting  of  Daphne's  head 
in  the  shield  that  was  braced  tight  to  his  arm  ex 
pressed  the  confident  conviction  that  she  was  destined 
one  day  to  be  linked  to  him.  The  artist's  secret  was 
revealed :  he  had  killed  my  brother !  In  his  morbid 
desire  of  fame,  and  in  a  spirit  of  hideous  realism  some 
times,  though  rarely,  exemplified  in  the  history  of  art, 

238 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

Angelo  had  murdered  a  fellow-mortal  for  the  purpose 
of  having  by  his  side  a  dead  man  to  serve  as  a  model 
for  the  fallen  Caesar,  even  proceeding  so  far  as  to  retain 
in  his  picture  the  very  features  of  his  victim. 

The  commission  of  this  terrible  deed,  and  the 
thought  that  now  that  his  rival  was  dead  Daphne 
would  be  his,  had  imparted  to  the  mind  of  the  artist 
a  sort  of  diabolic  inspiration — a  tone  of  fiendish  ex 
altation  that  had  enabled  him  for  the  time  being  to 
rise  superior  to  his  ordinary  mediocre  powers,  and  to 
surprise  the  art-critics  by  producing  a  work  far  sur 
passing  all  his  previous  efforts. 

He  could  expose  this  painting  to  public  view  with 
little  fear  that  its  exhibition  would  be  attended  with 
the  discovery  of  his  crime,  owing  to  the  fact  that  his 
victim  (to  represent  faithfully  the  person  of  Caesar) 
must  be  delineated  as  both  bald  and  beardless,  a  fact 
that  had  imparted  a  very  different  look  to  the  painted 
face ;  and  moreover,  since  George  had  spent  the  years 
subsequent  to  his  twentieth  birthday  in  India,  he  was 
riot  known  in  Europe  except  to  his  own  small  circle  of 
kinsfolk. 

The  only  persons,  then,  whom  the  artist  had  cause  to 
fear  were  the  relatives  of  his  victim,  and  returned 
Anglo-Indians. 

I  now  understood  his  motive  in  calling  my  attention 
to  the  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  George's  face.  It  was  to 
ascertain  whether,  in  the  event  of  seeing  his  picture,  I 
should  detect  any  resemblance  to  my  brother  in  the 
bald  and  beardless  head  of  Caesar :  hence  his  satisfac 
tion  at  my  want  of  perception,  for  he  felt  pretty  certain 
that  if  I  failed  to  recognise  the  likeness,  other  persons 
would  be  equally  or  more  obtuse. 

Yet,  despite  the  apparent  safety  which  my  mental 
blindness  had  promised  him,  he  had  feared  after  all  lest 

239 


The  Weird  Picture 

the  picture  should  betray  him,  and  the  fracas  that  had 
occurred  in  the  Vasari  Gallery  at  Paris  was  a  result  of 
this  fear. 

The  Indian  officer,  whom  Angelo  had  ordered  to  be 
expelled  from  the  gallery,  was  doubtless  a  friend  of 
George's,  belonging,  perhaps,  to  the  same  regiment, 
and  who,  if  permitted  to  see  the  work  of  art,  might 
have  discovered  in  the  same  more  than  was  intended 
by  its  author. 

Hence  Angelo's  reason  for  withdrawing  the  picture 
from  the  public  view.  Too  fond  of  his  handiwork  to 
destroy  it,  he  thought  that  by  consigning  it  to  the 
private  collection  of  the  Cornish  Baronet  his  safety 
would  be  assured. 

Vain  hope !  Avenging  Nemesis  was  pursuing  him, 
bringing  to  the  chosen  asylum  of  his  masterpiece  the 
very  bride  of  the  man  he  had  slain — the  one  person 
above  all  others  who  would  be  swift  to  detect  in  the 
face  of  the  painted  C?esar  the  features  of  her  lost 
lover ;  and  so,  in  order  to  avert  the  penalty  which  such 
a  recognition  would  bring,  the  artist  had  been  com 
pelled  to  resort  to  the  desperate  expedient  of  carrying 
off  the  picture  during  the  night. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  went  whirling  through 
my  mind ! 

Then,  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  I  laughed 
at  these  wild  ideas,  and  at  the  fright  they  had  given 
me. 

"  No,  no.  It  can't  be.  I'm  out  of  it  altogether,"  I 
muttered.  "This  picture  was  exhibited  last  spring: 
the  Standard  newspaper's  a  proof  of  that.  But  George 
was  seen  at  Rivoli  by  Daphne  in  the  autumn :  clearly, 
then,  he  can't  have  been  killed  last  Christmas  in  order 
to  minister  to  the  success  of  Angelo's  art." 

It  was  a  relief  to  believe  that  George  might  still  be 

240 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

living  and  that  Angelo  was  not  his  murderer.  But  the 
affair  was  still  as  great  a  mystery  as  ever — nay,  rather, 
it  was  enhanced.  The  question  still  remained :  Why 
had  the  artist  employed  George's  features  in  painting 
his  Caesar? 

The  human  mind  is  not  content  with  simply  accept 
ing  facts :  it  must  endeavour  to  account  for  them.  Men 
will  theorise,  as  confident  to-day  as  ever  that  they  can 
solve  every  problem  presented  to  them,  whether  it 
relates  to  things  in  heaven  above,  or  in  the  earth  be 
neath,  or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth. 

Flinging  myself  on  a  seat  within  an  embrasured 
casement,  I  tried  to  devise  some  new  theory  to  account 
for  the  admission  of  my  brother's  face  into  Angelo's 
picture. 

"  Angelo  had  George  before  him  in  his  studio  while 
painting  this  picture :  of  that  I  am  certain.  But  how 
came  George  to  be  there  ?  He  would  never  of  his  own 
free  will  consent  to  pose  as  an  artist's  model — of  that, 
too,  I  am  certain.  Besides,  if  it  were  so,  Angelo  would 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  our  discovering  the  fact ;  but 
that  he  does  fear  our  discovering  it  is  manifest  by  his 
behaviour.  It's  quite  clear  that  something  suspicious 
has  attended  the  production  of  this  picture.  There's 
only  one  conclusion  left  as  far  as  I  can  see.  George, 
on  account  of  his  fine  athletic  figure,  was  inveigled  into 
Angelo's  studio ;  and,  in  order  to  produce  a  state 
requisite  for  the  artist's  conception,  he  was  compelled 
to  drink  some  drug  which  subdued  his  natural  powers, 
and  gave  him  every  appearance  of  death.  And  since 
Angelo  could  never  by  his  own  strength  overpower 
George,  it  is  clear  he  must  have  had  others  to  help  him 
in  this  plot.  That  silver-haired  old  man,  Matteo 
Carito,  may  have  been  one ;  and  perhaps  that  myste 
rious  veiled  lady  was  another. 

241 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  But  what  happened  after  the  picture  was  finished  ? 
George  would  never  permit  himself  to  be  quietly  and 
contemptuously  dismissed  from  the  studio  without 
making  the  affair  public,  or  seeking  redress.  Nor 
would  Angelo  be  such  a  fool  as  to  permit  George  to  go 
forth  to  the  world,  proclaiming  the  ignominious  treat 
ment  he  had  received.  Ah,  I  have  it!  That  drug  must 
have  so  disordered  his  senses  as  to  leave  him  without 
intellect  and  without  memory  of  the  past.  Angelo 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  removing  him  in  that  state 
to  Rivoli,  and  detaining  him  there — a  harmless  lunatic 
— in  his  old  nurse's  cottage.  What  cared  he  so  long  as 
his  rival  in  love  was  out  of  the  way,  and  his  fame  as  an 
artist  established  ?  Yes,  yes ;  I  see  it  all  now. 

'  In  some  secluded  part  of  Europe  I  shall  live  out 
my  days  a  lonely  recluse.'  That  letter  was  a  forgery 
of  Angelo's.  The  damnable  villain !  I  now  understand 
his  words  to  Daphne  when  parting  from  her  at 
Rivoli :  '  You  are  nearer  to  him  now  than  you  have 
been  for  months.'  Of  course  she  was.  George  was 
living,  a  sort  of  prisoner,  at  Rivoli.  He  must  have 
contrived  to  escape  from  his  place  of  captivity  that 
very  day ;  and.  perhaps  with  some  faint  glimmering  of 
reason  left,  he  determined  to  have  vengeance  on  all 
who  had  taken  part  in  the  plot  against  him.  That  is 
why  he  hurled  the  old  man  over  the  cliff.  He  was 
mad,  quite  mad.  there  can  be  no  doubt,  and  that  is  why 
he  took  no  notice  of  Daphne  when  he  saw  her  by  the 
haunted  spring." 

As  I  thought  of  the  old  man's  awful  death  I  mut 
tered,  "  It  will  not  be  well  for  Angelo  if  George  should 
find  him  out." 

Scarcely  had  this  idea  occurred  to  me  when  I 
recalled  the  butler's  stories  of  the  wild  face  he  had 
seen  staring  through  the  casement  in  the  dusk  of 

242 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

evening,  a  face  like  that  in  the  picture;  of  the  figure 
in  the  grey  cloak,  and  of  the  terrible  cry  of  the 
previous  night — a  "  death-cry  "  the  butler  had  called 
it. 

Now  the  butler  knew  absolutely  nothing  of  my 
brother's  history ;  how  came  he,  then,  to  connect  this 
picture  with  a  figure  in  a  grey  cloak,  unless,  indeed,  he 
had  seen  such  a  figure  lying  on  the  floor  of  the  gallery  ? 

Could  it  be  that  George,  having  secretly  gained  ac 
cess  to  the  Abbey  with  intent  to  kill  the  artist,  had 
been  himself  killed  by  the  very  man  whose  life  he 
sought — struck  down  in  the  dead  of  night  in  front 
of  the  picture  that  had  been  the  cause  of  all  the 
mystery  ? 

Was  it  possible  that  only  a  few  hours  ago  this  gal 
lery  had  rung  with  my  brother's  death-cry  as  Angelo 
struck  him  down?  Oppressed  by  this  new  idea  I 
turned  quite  faint,  becoming  alternately  cold  and  hot. 

"  If  so,  what  can  Angelo  have  done  with  the  body?  " 
I  thought.  "  Is  it  in  the  tower  ?  "  From  the  casement 
where  I  sat  a  view  could  be  obtained  of  the  Nuns' 
Tower.  I  turned,  and  to  my  surprise  beheld  a  light 
shining  from  the  window  of  the  artist's  studio. 

Too  impatient  to  await  the  return  of  the  Baronet 
with  the  constable  and  the  warrant,  I  determined  to 
make  my  way  to  the  tower,  and  force  from  the  artist 
an  explanation  of  the  mystery  that  overhung  George's 
fate. 

With  a  final  glance  at  the  painted  image  of  my 
brother's  face,  whose  mournful  eyes  and  mute  lips 
seemed  appealing  to  me  for  justice,  I  left  the  gallery, 
and  hurrying  over  the  lawn  reached  the  tower,  bare 
headed,  breathless,  and  excited. 

"Angelo,"  I  cried,  hammering  at  the  door,  "  I  want 
you.  Something  really  important.  I  know  you  are  in- 

243 


The  Weird  Picture 

side.  Open  the  door.  I  won't  go  away  until  I've  seen 
you.  Angelo,  do  you  hear?" 

It  was  not  my  fault  if  he  didn't,  for  I  delivered  at  the 
door  a  succession  of  kicks  which  not  only  hurt  me 
frightfully  but  made  a  most  tremendous  noise.  Then 
remembering  that  I  had  the  key  of  the  tower  with  me, 
I  thrust  it  into  the  keyhole  and  turned  the  lock.  I 
hesitated  before  actually  opening  the  door,  thinking 
that  the  artist  might  be  ready  on  the  other  side  to  offer 
armed  resistance  to  me  or  to  anyone  who  should  invade 
his  sanctum  by  force.  But  I  thought  of  the  pistols, 
and  taking  one  from  my  pocket,  I  softly  and  slowly 
pushed  the  door  ajar,  standing  a  little  on  one  side  as  I 
did  so  in  order  that  I  might  escape  the  full  force  of  a 
frontal  attack  if  one  were  made. 

But  no  voice  or  sound  of  any  kind  greeted  me,  and 
venturing  to  peep  inside  I  found  to  my  surprise  that 
the  room  was  unoccupied.  As  soon  as  I  was  satisfied 
that  this  was  really  so,  I  slipped  in  and  locked  the  door 
behind  me  in  order  to  secure  myself  against  the  return 
of  the  artist. 

The  chamber,  like  the  tower  which  contained  it,  was 
octagonal.  The  roof  was  beautifully  vaulted.  From 
the  eight  angles  of  the  octagon  eight  pointed  arches 
sprang  towards  a  common  centre,  meeting  in  the  cap 
ital  of  the  solitary  pillar  that  supported  the  roof.  The 
walls  were  hidden  by  tapestry,  and  the  floor  was  strewn 
with  yellow  sand. 

A  mediaeval  monk  of  the  most  ascetic  tastes  could 
not  have  found  fault  with  the  appointments  of  this  cell. 
A  carved  oak  table  littered  with  an  artist's  para 
phernalia,  a  carved  oak  chair,  and  an  iron  lamp 
affixed  to  the  central  pillar  constituted  all  the  furniture 
of  the  place.  The  only  other  conspicuous  object  was 
the  easel  with  its  canvas.  No  fire  had  been  lighted  that 

244 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

day,  though  materials  for  one  were  laid  in  the  grate, 
and  the  chilling  atmosphere  of  the  room  sent  a  shiver 
through  me. 

It  was  evident  that  the  artist  had  been  in  the  studio 
since  our  afternoon  visit.  For  the  lamp  was  alight, 
and  the  purple  curtain  had  been  taken  down  from 
the  casement  and  now  hung  over  the  back  of  one 
of  the  chairs.  All  this  I  noticed  at  a  glance,  and 
then  I  eagerly  approached  the  easel,  and  throwing  off 
the  sheet  that  covered  it,  I  turned  it  so  that  the  light 
from  above  fell  full  upon  the  canvas. 

The  picture  was  a  representation  of  the  Flavian 
Amphitheatre  in  the  days  of  its  wicked  old  glory,  when 
the  balconies  gleamed  with  mosaic-work  of  precious 
stones,  and  clouds  of  purple  incense  rose  in  the  air. 
The  galleries  were  crowded  with  spectators,  and  in 
the  expression  of  the  various  countenances  ample  scope 
was  given  for  the  display  of  the  artist's  skill.  Every 
character  typical  of  the  times  was  represented,  from 
Imperial  Csesar  viewing  with  cold  disdain  the  death  of 
the  enemy  of  the  gods,  down  to  the  secret  Christian 
slave  shuddering  at  the  fate  of  his  co-religionist.  A 
purple  velarium  was  drawn  above  the  amphitheatre  as 
a  shield  against  the  sun's  rays,  and  the  painter  had  dis 
played  with  artistic  effect  every  object  tinged  with  a 
faint  violet  hue. 

But  the  spectator  of  the  picture  felt  at  once  that  all 
these  details  were  mere  accessories.  The  arena — dotted 
here  and  there  with  helmet,  shield,  and  spear,  or  the 
gilded  net  of  the  retairius — was  intended  to  be  the 
feature  of  the  picture.  A  magnificent  Libyan  lion, 
lashing  his  tail  on  the  sands,  was  standing  proudly 
erect,  his  flaming  eyes  fixed  on  something  beneath  his 
forepaws.  That  something  was  nothing ;  or,  to  be  less 
paradoxical,  what  was  to  be  there  was  not  yet  painted. 

245 


The  Weird  Picture 

The  picture  was  in  an  unfinished  state,  and  the  dying 
martyr  was  not  yet  outlined  upon  the  canvas. 

It  was  disappointing  to  contemplate  the  picture  with 
what  was  evidently  intended  to  be  the  central  figure  ab 
sent.  I  did  not  doubt  that  were  it  completed  and  ex 
posed  to  public  view  it  would  create  as  great  a  furore 
as  his  last  masterpiece. 

I  was  puzzled  to  find  the  work  in  so  unfinished  a 
state,  for  Angelo  himself  had  said  that  most  of  the  de 
tails  I  now  beheld  had  been  painted  before  he  came  to 
the  Abbey.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  a  dilatory  worker, 
and  the  picture  gave  the  lie  to  his  assertion  that  since 
his  arrival  he  had  been  engaged  upon  the  figure  of  the 
girl-martyr,  for  not  a  trace  of  her  was  visible  upon  the 
canvas.  He  may,  of  course,  have  been  dissatisfied  with 
his  work  and  have  effaced  it,  but  if  that  were  the  case 
there  seemed  no  justification  for  his  saying  so  late  as 
this  morning  that  he  expected  to  complete  the  picture 
in  a  few  hours.  Some  characters  at  the  foot  of  the  can 
vas  in  one  corner  attracted  my  notice,  and  bending  low 
I  saw  that  they  gave  the  title  of  the  picture  and  the 
name  of  the  artist.  Prompted  by  the  appearance  of  the 
letters,  I  drew  my  forefinger  heavily  over  them,  and, 
as  I  had  expected,  they  were  immediately  converted 
into  a  long  smear. 

The  paint  was  wet,  a  proof  that  it  had  been  but  re 
cently  laid  on.  My  action  had  completely  effaced  the 
title  of  the  picture,  but  not  before  I  had  read  it.  That 
title  was  "  Modestus,  the  Christian  Martyr." 

"Modestus!"  This  was  singular.  It  was  only  this 
very  morning  that  the  artist  had  called  it  "  Modesta." 
Why  this  sudden  change  of  title?  Was  he  going  to 
represent  a  man,  and  not  a  maiden,  as  the  martyr? 
Why  had  he  abandoned  his  original  project — aban 
doned  it,  so  it  would  seem,  within  the  past  few  hours  ? 

246 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

Was  it  because  he  had  failed  to  delineate  to  his  own 
satisfaction  his  ideal  of  beauty? 

I  was  unable  to  answer  this  question,  and  turned 
from  the  easel  to  the  table,  on  which  lay  a  medley 
of  articles.  First,  there  was  a  white  woollen  tunic  such 
as  the  antique  Roman  was  wont  to  wear,  a  girdle,  a 
pair  of  sandals,  a  short  Roman  sword,  and  a  buckler  of 
oblong  shape.  In  my  dulness  I  at  first  thought  that 
these  were  to  form  Angelo's  costume  for  the  fancy- 
dress  ball  to  be  held  at  Silverdale  on  Twelfth  Night, 
but  they  were  of  course  the  "  properties  "  in  which  the 
model  for  his  picture  was  to  pose.  Perhaps,  on  the 
principle  of  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  this  cos 
tume  was  to  unite  both  purposes.  At  any  rate  it 
furnished  an  additional  proof  that  the  artist  had  aban 
doned  the  title  of  "  Modesta,"  since  these  articles, 
though  suitable  enough,  perhaps,  for  an  Amazon, 
would  have  been  out  of  place  as  the  equipment  of  a 
Christian  maiden. 

But  who  or  what  was  to  be  the  model?  I  looked 
around  for  the  lay-figure  of  which  the  artist  had 
spoken.  I  lifted  different  portions  of  the  tapestry, 
thinking  that  the  model  might  perhaps  be  in  some 
recess  behind  it,  but  failed  to  discover  anything  suit 
able  for  the  artist's  purpose.  Was  he  going  to  em 
ploy  the  human  form  once  more?  and  if  so,  whose? 
Had  last  night's  tragedy  in  the  gallery  furnished  him 
with  a  ready  means  of  completing  his  picture  without 
delay  ?  Was  this  the  real  reason  of  the  change  of  title, 
and  of  this  sudden  preparation  of  artistic  material  ?  I 
say  sudden,  because  it  had  evidently  been  introduced 
into  the  cell  since  Fruin's  visit  to  it,  otherwise  the 
gleam  of  the  sword  and  buckler  would  surely  have  at 
tracted  his  attention,  and  have  been  mentioned  by  him. 
If  we  delayed  the  arrest  of  Angelo  for  a  few  hours  in 

247 


The  Weird  Picture 

order  to  peer  through  the  casement  of  the  studio  with 
the  first  gleam  of  daylight,  should  we  catch  him 
at  work  upon  his  canvas  with  a  dead  form  before  him, 
completing  his  picture,  by  a  singular  coincidence  of 
dates,  on  the  very  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  he 
had  finished  his  last  masterpiece  ? 

A  short  dagger  was  the  next  object  that  engaged 
my  attention,  a  double-edged  and  pointed  weapon. 
Taking  it  up  for  closer  inspection,  I  saw  a  red  stain 
on  it.  Was  it  paint  or — something  else?  The  dag 
ger  seemed  familiar  to  me,  and  I  now  remembered 
to  have  seen  its  painted  image  in  "The  Fall  of  Caesar." 
The  artist  had  evidently  copied  its  antique  shape  in 
his  picture ;  the  stain  on  it  was  probably  some  colouring 
matter,  and  not  blood,  as  I  had  supposed  in  my  first 
start  of  surprise. 

By  the  side  of  this  poniard  was  a  curious  article 
representing  a  lion's  paw  with  claws  projecting  out. 
The  paw  was  of  ivory,  exquisitely  carved ;  the  claws 
were  of  bright  steel.  I  could  not  help  connecting  this 
curious  object  with  the  lion  in  the  picture  on  the  easel, 
yet  utterly  failed  to  perceive  the  links  of  the  connexion. 
The  artist  had  not  employed  it  in  delineating  the 
paw  of  the  lion — such  a  supposition  was  absurd ;  and, 
besides,  on  glancing  at  the  painting  of  the  animal,  I 
saw  that  its  claws  were  curved  in  a  manner  very  dif 
ferent  from  those  of  the  model  before  me.  As  I  could 
not  conjecture  what  its  use  was,  I  began  to  examine  the 
next  object  to  it,  a  small  cut-glass  phial  containing 
some  dark  liquid. 

Removing  the  stopper,  I  applied  my  nostrils  to  the 
orifice.  An  extremely  fragrant  odour  arose — so  pun 
gent,  however,  that  it  caused  my  eyes  to  water,  and  set 
me  coughing  for  several  seconds. 

Of  course  it  was  impossible  for  my  nostrils  to  detect 

248 


The  Mysteries  of  the  Studio 

off-hand  the  nature  and  composition  of  the  contents 
of  the  phial ;  and,  though  not  gifted,  perhaps,  with  any 
large  amount  of  wisdom,  I  was  not  quite  so  foolish  as 
to  attempt  to  gain  any  knowledge  of  the  liquid  by 
tasting  it.  Replacing  the  stopper,  I  put  the  phial  in 
my  pocket  with  a  view  to  subjecting  its  contents  to  an 
analysis  at  the  first  convenient  opportunity. 

At  this  point  I  sank  into  a  chair,  for  a  strange 
drowsiness  was  stealing  over  me.  I  could  not  account 
for  it  at  the  time,  but  I  know  now  that  it  was  due  to  the 
volatility  of  the  liquid,  which  was  operating  on  my 
mind  with  a  stupefying  effect. 

Scarcely  knowing  what  I  was  doing,  I  lifted  up  a 
purple-bound  volume  from  the  table,  and  turning  me 
chanically  to  the  first  page,  found  a  fresh  surprise  in 
the  title  of  the  work,  Silverdale  Abbey:  Its  History 
and  Antiquities. 

Why,  here  was  the  very  book  that  had  disappeared 
from  the  library,  the  book  whose  loss  had  so  much 
fretted  the  Baronet !  The  contents  of  the  book  were 
not  printed,  but  written  with  a  pen,  in  a  hand  beauti 
fully  clear  and  flowing.  This  manuscript,  according 
to  Sir  Hugh,  had  been  compiled  by  an  eminent 
archaeologist ;  but  there  was  at  the  end  an  addendum 
of  a  few  pages  which  were  evidently  not  by  the  hand 
that  had  penned  the  body  of  the  work.  I  recognised 
the  crabbed  characters  to  be  those  of  Sir  Hugh's  prede 
cessor,  whose  autograph  I  had  seen. 

This  addendum  contained  matter  that  the  last 
Baronet  for  obvious  reasons  would  not  wish  to  be  gen 
erally  known.  It  gave  an  account  of  certain  secret 
panels,  hidden  corridors,  and  subterranean  chambers, 
made  in  the  days  of  the  Commonwealth,  when  loyalty 
to  the  House  of  Stuart  meant  confiscation  and  death. 

The    present    Baronet    had    never    read    the    book, 

249 


The  Weird  Picture 

and  was  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  these  secret 
rooms,  in  which  his  Royalist  ancestors  had  been  wont 
to  take  refuge  from  the  search  of  the  Puritan  soldiery. 

Not  so  Angelo.  The  book  had  fallen  in  his  way,  and 
by  its  perusal  he  had  become  master  of  secrets  un 
known  to  the  household  of  Silverdale — unknown  even 
to  the  white-headed  old  butler,  who  had  passed  all  his 
days  at  the  Abbey.  It  was  this  knowledge  that  had 
enabled  the  artist  to  remove  his  picture  with  such 
secrecy  during  the  night,  for,  as  I  read  on  I  came  to 
the  following: 

"  The  Nuns'  Tower  is  connected  with  the  picture 
gallery  by  a  subterranean  passage,  which " 

I  could  get  no  farther.  The  letters  were  dancing 
wildly  on  the  page,  and  all  efforts  on  my  part  to  per 
suade  them  to  behave  like  quiet,  respectable  members 
of  the  alphabet  were  useless. 

I  found  myself  mechanically  repeating  this  fragment 
of  a  sentence,  and  then,  with  the  sudden  consciousness 
that  I  was  fallinr  asleep  in  a  very  dangerous  place,  I 
staggered  to  my  feet,  but  the  soporific  drug  had  done 
its  work,  and  I  sank  back  again  into  the  chair  in  a  state 
of  coma. 


250 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  DENOUEMENT! 

I  BELIEVE  it  is  not  an  uncommon  thing  for  a 
sentinel  to  slumber  at  his  post,  and  wake  to  find 
himself  still  in  a  standing  posture.  To  the  or 
dinary  mortal,  however,  this  would  certainly  be  a  novel 
experience. 

Judge,  then,  of  my  surprise,  on  returning  to  a  state 
of  consciousness,  to  discover  that  I  was  on  my  feet  in 
an  erect  position  with  my  back  against  what  seemed  to 
be  a  stone  pillar.  It  is  not  quite  correct  to  define  my 
attitude  as  "erect :"  leaning  forward  would  more  aptly 
describe  it.  My  balance  was  maintained  by  a  con 
trivance  of  somewhat  sinister  significance.  My  hands 
were  extendc  1  almost  horizontally  behind  me,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  pillar,  my  wrists  being  firmly  secured 
to  each  other  by  something  which,  judging  by  the 
s;-nse  of  touch  was  a  silken  sash  so  twined  and  twisted 
as  to  serve  the  same  purpose  as  a  strong  cord.  My 
arms  ached  with  the  pain  arising  from  the  unnatural 
position  in  which  they  were  sustained ;  and  my  head 
throbbed  acutely,  probably  from  the  effects  of  the  drug 
exhaled  by  the  phial, 

In  what  place  I  stood  it  was  impossible  to  tell,  for 
there  lay  a  darkness  all  around  as  black  and  oppressive 
as  though  a  pall  had  been  flung  over  me.  Fear  imparts 
the  wildest  fancies  to  the  human  mind.  My  first  im 
pression  was  that  I  had  awoke  on  the  other  side  of  the 

251 


The  Weird  Picture 

dark  river  that  parts  this  world  from  the  next,  and  that 
my  eyes,  so  soon  as  they  were  able  to  pierce  the  gloom, 
would  discover  scenes  more  terrible  than  those  im 
agined  by  the  genius  of  Dante. 

Reverting,  however,  to  the  train  of  events  that  had 
brought  me  to  the  state  of  unconsciousness,  I  came  to 
the  more  rational  conclusion  that  I  was  still  in  the 
Nuns'  Tower.  The  stone  column  to  which  I  was  at 
tached  was  without  doubt  the  pillar  that  upheld  the 
arched  roof  of  the  studio-cell ;  and  the  silken  fabric 
that  bound  my  hands,  I  felt  intuitively,  was  the  purple 
curtain  that,  earlier  in  the  day,  had  been  hung  over 
the  casement. 

My  eyes,  becoming  by  slow  degrees  accustomed  to 
the  darkness,  discerned  through  the  penumbra  around 
me  a  grey  oblong  object  elevated  in  air  and  crowned 
with  a  triangular  apex,  which  finally  resolved  itself  into 
the  shape  of  a  Gothic  casement ;  and  then  little  by  little 
the  whole  perspective  of  the  studio-cell  became  dimly 
outlined  on  my  vision ;  and  there,  by  the  side  of  the 
table,  within  the  oaken  chair,  sat  a  figure. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  shout  for  help,  but  I  checked 
myself  lest  such  cry  should  be  the  signal  for  my  mys 
terious  captor  to  despatch  me.  How  he  had  gained 
access  to  the  cell  was  evident. 

At  a  point  equidistant  from  the  window  and  the 
door  a  slab  of  stone  that  formed  a  part  of  the  floor 
ing  was  raised,  and  reclined  obliquely  against  the 
wall.  Beneath  the  place  where  it  had  lain  an  opening 
yawned,  and  the  faint  outline  of  steps  going  down 
wards  proved  the  truth  of  the  statement  contained  in 
the  addendum  to  the  antiquary's  book  that  there  was 
another  mode  of  communicating  with  the  tower  besides 
the  ordinary  way  of  the  door. 

I  turned  my  staring  eyeballs  towards  the  shape  at 

252 


The  Denouement! 

the  table.  It  was  too  dark  at  first  for  me  to  distinguish 
his  features,  but  the  contour  of  the  figure  seemed  to 
suggest  the  personality  of  Angelo.  By  and  by  the 
obscurity  of  the  cell  became  faintly  illumined  by  the 
withdrawal  of  some  dark  clouds  from  the  face  of  the 
sky,  and  I  saw  that  my  captor  was  indeed  the  artist. 
Clad  in  a  dark  velvet  jacket,  he  sat  with  his  hands 
clasped  at  the  back  of  his  head,  and  one  leg  thrown 
carelessly  over  the  other. 

I  had  not  expected  my  captor  to  be  any  one  else  than 
Angelo,  and  yet  the  recognition  seemed  to  come  upon 
me  as  a  surprise. 

I  shall  not  pretend  to  be  a  hero,  and  say  that 
the  recognition  brought  with  it  no  fear.  It  did  indeed 
bring  a  very  great  pang  of  fear.  I  felt  such  a  sensa 
tion  then  as  I  never  before  felt  and  never  wish  to  feel 
again. 

I  was  a  captive  in  the  power  of  a  rival  who  hated  me 
with  all  the  hatred  of  a  hatred-loving  race.  I  had 
sneered  at  him  and  at  his  adored  art.  I  had  robbed 
him  of  Daphne,  depriving  him  by  that  act  of  a  figure 
whose  beauty  would  be  an  acquisition  to  his  studio.  I 
had  little  to  hope  from  his  mercy. 

Preserving  with  difficulty  my  presence  of  mind,  I 
manipulated  the  silken  bands  on  my  wrists  in 
the  hope  of  releasing  myself,  but  Angelo  had  per 
formed  his  task  too  well  to  permit  this.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  my  earthly  salvation  was  not  within  my  own 
power.  It  must  come — if  it  should  come  at  all — from 
without.  With  a  terror  that  increased  moment  by 
moment,  I  recognised  how  hopeless  was  my  situation. 

True,  the  Baronet  and  my  uncle  would  miss  me  on 
their  return,  and,  conjecturing  that  I  had  gone  to  the 
Nuns'  Tower,  might  come  to  seek  me,  but  their  aid 
would  be  of  no  avail,  for,  even  if  they  should  come 

253 


The  Weird  Picture 

with  a  body  of  servants  armed  with  axes,  it  would  take 
them  a  minute  at  least  to  force  open  the  strong-  oaken 
door — ample  time  for  the  artist  to  compass  his  work 
of  vengeance  and  escape  by  the  secret  passage. 

What  men  usually  do  when  nothing  else  is  left  for 
them  to  do,  I  did.  The  first  really  fervent  prayer 
that  I  ever  breathed  rose  to  my  lips. 

As  I  could  see  Angelo's  eyes  quite  plainly,  I  con 
cluded  he  could  see  mine,  and  hence  he  must  have 
perceived  that  I  had  recovered  from  my  state  of 
lethargy.  He  did  not  speak,  however,  but  continued 
to  look  at  me,  as  if  my  captivity  were  a  luxury  too  rich 
for  words.  Several  minutes  passed,  and  at  last  the 
silence  became  so  oppressive  that  I  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  and  I  said : 

"  Was  it  you  who  bound  me  like  this  ?  " 

"  It  was." 

A  brief  reply — delivered  in  a  cool  tone  of  voice,  too, 
as  if  the  seizure  and  binding  of  a  gentleman  to  a  Gothic 
pillar  was  an  every-day  event  with  him,  and  of  too 
trifling  a  character  to  require  any  comment  or  apol 
ogy. 

"Confound  your  ill-timed  jest!  Cut  these  cords  at 
once,  before  my  cries  bring  assistance." 

The  artist  took  up  from  the  table  the  poniard  with 
the  red  stain  on  its  blade,  and  proceeded  to  sharpen  the 
edge  on  a  square  slab  of  marble  that  did  duty  occasion 
ally  as  a  palette.  Silly  that  I  was !  I  actually  believed 
that  my  bold  manner  had  frightened  him,  and  that  he 
was  going  to  comply  with  my  request.  The  noise  pro 
duced  by  the  sharpening  process  was  not  a  pleasant 
one,  and  it  set  my  teeth  on  edge. 

"  Oh,  that'll  do ! ';  I  cried  impatiently — that  is,  im 
patiently  for  a  captive,  dependent  on  the  pleasure  of 


254 


The  Denouement! 

another  for  his  release.  "  That'll  do.  It's  sharp 
enough  for  the  purpose." 

"  Pardon  me,  no,"  he  replied,  lifting  his  eyes  from 
the  dagger  to  contemplate  me  for  a  moment.  "  It's  not 
sharp  enough  for  the  purpose." 

Something  in  the  intonation  of  his  voice  drove  out 
the  last  traces  of  the  drug,  and  restored  me  instantly  to 
the  full  use  of  my  faculties,  as  drunken  men  are  said 
to  become  sobered  by  a  sudden  shock. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  I  cried. 

As  if  there  could  be  any  doubt  in  the  matter ! 

"  Immortalise  you  by  my  art." 

If  he  had  said  that  he  was  going  to  take  vengeance 
on  a  rival  whom  he  hated  I  should  have  understood 
him,  but  this  speech  of  his  was  unintelligible. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  I  ask  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you :  make  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of 
art." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  cried,  tugging  at 
my  bonds. 

'*  That  picture,"  replied  the  artist,  pausing  in  his 
occupation  to  point  with  his  dagger  at  the  can 
vas  on  the  easel ;  "  that  picture  is  at  a  standstill  for 
want  of  an  appropriate  model.  /  have  found  my 
model." 

With  parted  lips  and  dilated  eyes  I  gazed  at  the 
speaker,  wondering  whether  he  were  in  earnest.  His 
easy  air  of  unconcern  inspired  me  with  false  hopes. 
He  was  only  acting  the  part  of  a  would-be  assassin,  I 
thought.  It  was  a  jest  of  his  to  frighten  me.  A  trick  to 
compel  me  perhaps  to  forswear  all  claim  to  Daphne. 

"  Do  you  hope  to  frighten  me  by  these  tricks  ?  "  I 
cried,  assuming  a  courage  I  did  not  feel.  "  I  have  but 
to  raise  my  voice — 

"  Raise  it,  then." 

255 


The  Weird  Picture 

There  was  a  look  in  his  eyes,  a  motion  of  the  dag 
ger  that  convinced  me  I  had  better  not. 

"  You  are  wise.  Your  silence  has  added  a  few 
moments  to  your  brief  span  of  life." 

If  there  had  been  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  if  his  features 
had  relaxed  from  their  set  expression,  I  could  have 
hoped  then  that  his  humanity  might  yet  triumph  over 
the  impulse  of  crime.  But  this  cold,  mechanical  calm 
ness — it  was  even  a  more  frightful  thing  than  the  deed 
he  was  contemplating. 

"  Would  you  murder  me  for  the  sake  of  a  picture?  " 
I  asked  in  as  quiet  a  tone  as  I  could  assume. 

"  Killing  in  the  interests  of  art  is  not  murder,  any 
more  than  the  burning  of  a  heretic  in  the  interests  of 
holy  religion  is  murder." 

It  was  evident  that  the  Italian  was  in  deadly  earnest, 
and  that  his  whole  soul  was  absorbed  by  one  passion — 
devotion  to  his  art.  In  the  interests  of  that  fetish, 
crime  even  was  excusable.  This  is  the  age  of  realism — 
of  a  realism  that  too  often  dispenses  with  morality. 
Angelo's  aesthetics  of  death  was  but  the  logical  out 
come  of  the  realistic  school. 

The  artist  had  imparted  the  necessary  edge  to  his 
weapon,  and  reclined  once  more  in  an  easy  attitude, 
fingering  the  blade  with  a  delicate  touch,  and  surveying 
my  form  with  a  critical  eye. 

"  I  cannot  say  that  you  are  quite  the  beau-ideal  for 
an  artist.  A  little  more  massiveness  in  your  figure,  a 
little  more  muscular  development  of  the  limbs,  would 
be  more  in  accordance  with  the  canons  of  physical 
beauty.  Still,  these  little  imperfections  can  be  recti 
fied  on  the  canvas." 

The  mockery  of  this  remark  was  not  accompanied 
by  any  relaxation  of  his  features.  He  might  have 


256 


The  Denouement! 

been  wearing  a  stone  mask,  so  little  mobility  did  his 
face  display. 

"  Nor  can  I  say  that  your  present  expression  is  pre 
cisely  that  which  a  dying  Christian  ought  to  assume. 
There  is  an  appreciable  want  of  resignation  in  it. 
Still,  it  is  within  the  power  of  my  pencil  to  trans 
figure  your  face  with  the  divine  light  of  martyrdom, 
thus  conferring  upon  you  an  immortality  on  canvas — 
an  eternity  of  fame  which  assuredly  you  would  never 
gain  by  the  productions  of  your  pen,  though  literature, 
we  know,  be  your  forte." 

This  last  was  a  mocking  allusion  to  a  boast  of  mine 
made  at  Rivoli. 

A  devilish  motive  prompting  these  remarks  was 
obvious.  He  wanted  to  apply  torture  to  the  mind  be 
fore  applying  it  to  the  body.  He  felt  that  the  captive 
was  the  true  victor;  for  though  he  might  slay  me, 
yet  the  deed  would  never  make  Daphne  his.  I  longed 
to  taunt  him  with  this,  and  to  hurl  back  gibe  for 
gibe.  Prudence  restrained  me,  however.  A  rash  re 
tort  might  precipitate  matters,  and  cause  him  to  exe 
cute  his  deadly  work  sooner  than  he  intended ;  and  de 
lay  was  of  value  to  me,  for  as  the  human  mind  aban 
dons  hope  only  with  the  last  breath,  so  did  I  cling  to 
the  expectation  that  rescue  might  come  in  a  shape  I 
did  not  dream  of.  Therefore  I  listened  to  the  artist 
without  saying  a  word. 

"  Some  weeks  ago  I  learned  that  you  and  Daphne 
were  to  spend  your  Christmas  at  the  Abbey.  I  prepared 
for  the  event.  I  had  vowed  that,  living  or  dead,  Daphne 
should  minister  to  the  success  of  my  picture,  and  since 
I  could  not  have  the  living  woman,  I  resolved  to  have 
her  dead  form ;  it  would  suit  my  purpose  equally 
well — perhaps  better.  I  have  learnt  a  little  of 
the  topography  of  the  Abbey.  A  secret  passage  con- 


The  Weird  Picture 

necting  this  tower  with  the  bedchambers  furnished  me 
with  the  ready  means  for  carrying  her  off  to  my  studio 
in  the  darkness  of  the  night.  This  phial  here,"  holding 
up  the  bottle  that  he  had  evidently  removed  from  my 
breast-pocket,  where  I  had  placed  it — "  you  have  had 
some  experience  of  it  yourself — applied  to  her  pretty 
nostrils  would  be  an  instant  balm  for  hysterics. 
However,  my  scheme  of  last  night  miscarried — 
through  you.  Therefore  you  take  her  place.  You  have 
prevented  me  from  adequately  realising  my  conception 
of  the  sweet  and  sad  death-beauty  of  a  girl-martyr. 
Art  demands,  then,  that  you  atone  for  your  interven 
tion  by  becoming  the  substitute.  Behold,  martyr,  your 
attire !  "  he  added,  turning  to  the  table  and  lifting  up 
the  different  articles  composing  the  Roman  costume. 

Replacing  them,  he  took  up  the  ivory  paw  whose 
use  had  so  much  puzzled  me. 

"  You  see  this  ?  To  lacerate  your  naked  body  with 
— to  give  to  its  quivering  white  the  very  wounds  that 
a  lion's  claws  would  inflict.  My  own  invention — ex 
clusively  my  own." 

He  spoke  of  his  projected  task  in  as  cool  a  tone  as  a 
scientist  might  use  in  speaking  of  the  dissection  of  a 
dog. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  laying  down  the  claw, 
"  this  is  the  age  of  realism.  Nothing  is  now  accepted 
in  literature,  art,  or  the  drama  that  does  not  bear  on 
its  front  the  stamp  of  reality.  Art,  if  it  is  to  hold  the 
mirror  up  to  Nature,  must  not  shrink  any  more  than 
medical  science  from  experimenting  on  the  living 
frame,  and  analysing  with  delicate  eye  its  varying 
phases  of  agony." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  arriving  at  the  end  of  a  set  oration,  he  said : 

"  You  now  have  my  secret.     Know,  then,  how   I 

258 


The  Denouement! 

intend  to  produce  on  that  canvas  the  dying  agonies  of 
Modestus  the  martyr — the  picture  destined  to  create 
an  epoch  in  the  history  of  modern  art.  So  soon  as  the 
church-bells  chime  the  hour  of  midnight  you  are  dead. 
Such  is  Daphne's  wish." 

"  Daphne's!  "  I  ejaculated. 

"  Ay !  She  wishes  for  your  death.  She  has  promised 
to  marry  me  to-night.  Did  you  not  know  ?  " 

He  spoke  in  so  natural  a  tone  that  I  could  but  stare 
fixedly  at  him,  wondering  what  his  motive  could  be  in 
fabricating  so  wild  a  statement.  My  look  of  perplexity 
was  so  great  that  the  artist  laughed  aloud.  This  was 
the  first  time  his  facial  muscles  had  relaxed.  The 
transition  from  rigidity  to  mobility  was  not  an  agree 
able  one. 

A  terrible  metamorphosis  was  coming  over  the  artist. 
It  seemed  as  if  some  part  of  his  nature,  that  he  had 
long  kept  hidden,  was  rising  up  to  the  surface.  It  did 
arise — fast.  It  revealed  itself  in  his  unearthly  laugh, 
in  the  distortion  of  his  mouth,  in  the  wild  light  of  his 
eyes,  in  the  goblin  attitude  he  had  suddenly  assumed 
with  his  head  sunk  forward  on  his  breast  and  his 
crooked  fingers  clawing  at  the  air. 

ANGELO  WAS  MAD! 

Mad !  Why  had  I  not  guessed  this  before  ?  A  thou 
sand  circumstances — curious  facial  expressions,  odd 
sayings,  tricks  of  gesture — came  welling  up  from  the 
depths  of  the  past.  Trivial,  considered  apart,  in  the 
aggregate  they  were  significant,  and  tended  to  confirm 
my  terrible  discovery. 

This  revelation  of  Angelo's  character  imparted  a 
fresh  element  of  horror  to  my  situation,  and  reduced  to 
a  minimum  my  chances  of  escape.  Angelo  sane  might 
perhaps  be  diverted  from  his  deadly  purpose  by  the 
thought  that  discovery  would  be  certain  to  attend  the 

259 


The  Weird  Picture 

commission  of  his  crime.  But  no  such  reason  could 
prevail  with  a  madman. 

Flinging  back  his  dark  locks  with  a  defiant  gesture, 
the  maniac  fixed  his  glittering  eve  on  me,  and  com 
menced  to  chant  some  Italian  refrain  composed  in  a 
very  mournful  key,  keeping  time  to  the  air  with  the 
motions  of  his  hand.  I  recognised  the  refrain.  I  had 
heard  it  once  at  Rivoli.  It  was  a  funeral  hymn. 

The  foreign  words  imperfectly  comprehended  by  me, 
the  plaintive  character  of  the  refrain,  united  to  the 
melancholy  voice  of  the  maniac,  made  this  singing  the 
most  awful  and  unearthly  thing  I  had  ever  heard, 
thrilling  me  to  the  very  centre  with  the  most  eerie 
sensations.  Every  now  and  then  he  would  pause 
to  take  a  drink  from  a  spirit-flask,  resuming  his 
wild  song  immediately  afterwards.  Usually  a  foe  to 
intoxicants,  he  was  now  taking  draughts  of  brandy 
in  a  reckless  fashion,  and  I  knew  that  he  was  work 
ing  himself  up  for  his  fiendish  task.  The  cold  grey 
cell,  the  dim  light,  the  gibbering  thing  at  the  table 
chanting  my  death  song,  formed  a  picture  that  has 
lived  in  my  memory  ever  since,  and  often  have  I 
started  from  sleep  with  a  cry  of  terror,  shivering  at  the 
recollection  of  this  night. 

The  cell  had  been  gradually  growing  brighter,  and  at 
last  on  one  side  of  the  casement,  through  the  tangles  of 
ivy,  appeared  the  silver  arc  of  the  moon  whose  arrowy 
beams  slanted  to  the  floor,  adding  a  still  greater 
sense  of  weirdness  to  the  scene.  The  moon  seemed 
to  have  a  disturbing  effect  upon  the  artist's  disordered 
mind,  for  he  turned  uneasily  to  the  casement. 

:'  Too  much  light.  Too  much  light.  I  hate  this 
silvery  glare,"  and  raising  his  arms  he  exclaimed  trag 
ically,  "Oh,  Endymion,  why  sleepest  thou?  Rise 


260 


The  Denouement! 

with  thy  white  arms  and  draw  Cynthia  down  to  thy 
embrace." 

As  he  spoke  the  moon  actually  was  veiled  by  a 
passing  cloud. 

"  I  knew  he  would  obey  me,"  he  exclaimed  tri 
umphantly.  "  Am  not  I  lord  of  the  night  and  of  its 
shadows?  " 

Had  there  remained  in  my  mind  any  doubt  as  to  his 
sanity  this  absurd  effusion  would  have  effectually  re 
moved  it.  The  sound  of  the  church  clock  chiming  the 
half  hour  now  smote  on  my  ears.  If  the  maniac  ad 
hered  to  his  threat  I  had  but  thirty  minutes  left  to  live, 
and  I  concentrated  all  my  faculties  upon  the  difficulties 
of  my  position.  My  uncle  must  by  this  time  have  re 
turned  with  Sir  Hugh,  and  on  finding  myself  as  well  as 
the  keys  of  the  Nuns'  Tower  and  the  gallery  missing, 
would  guess  where  I  was  and  they  might  even  now  be 
on  their  way  to  seek  me  and  to  arrest  the  artist.  If 
they  were  listening  outside  they  would  hear  Angelo's 
voice  and  would  understand  the  peril  I  was  in.  They 
could  not  easily  force  the  door,  nor,  if  they  had  any 
suspicion  of  the  artist's  insanity,  would  they  be  so  rash 
as  to  try,  but  one  blow  would  shatter  the  window  and 
give  them  instant  admission  into  the  tower. 

Buoyed  up  with  the  hope  that  help  might  arrive  at 
any  moment,  I  resolved,  if  possible,  to  soothe  and  flatter 
the  maniac,  with  a  view  of  gaining  time  and  of  getting 
him  to  postpone  his  self-imposed  task  beyond  the  mid 
night  hour.  I  would  persuade  him  to  talk  of  his  last 
picture,  of  his  brother  artists,  of  his  early  days  at 
Rivoli — of  anything,  that  would  divert  his  attention 
from  me,  and  delay  the  fatal  stroke. 

"  Angelo,  listen  to  me,"  I  said,  forcing  my  voice  to 
adopt  the  slow  deliberate  tones  I  have  heard  hospital 
nurses  employ  in  order  that  they  may  the  more  readily 

261 


The  Weird  Picture 

find  lodgment  in  the  disordered  brain — "  I  am  quite 
willing  to  die." 

Even  while  saying  this,  the  incongruity  of  telling  a 
falsehood  when  so  near  the  point  of  death  occurred  to 
me,  but  I  repeated  the  falsehood : 

"  I  am  quite  willing  to  die." 

"  It  is  sweet  to  die  for  art,"  cried  the  artist  gravely, 
as  if  the  remark  were  an  indisputable  axiom. 

"  I  will  not  struggle  with  you." 

This  at  least  was  true,  for  the  silken  bands  would 
not  let  me. 

"  Daphne  wished  you  not  to  struggle,"  remarked  the 
madman. 

"  But  before  I  go,  tell  me — tell  me — "  I  hesitated, 
not  knowing  what  to  say  next.  "  Tell  me — what  has 
become  of  my  brother  George?"  I  cried,  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment.  "  You  must  know,"  I  added. 

"  Your  brother  ?  "  cried  the  artist,  his  eyes  lighting 
up,  as  if  some  new  chord  in  his  memory  were  touched. 
"  Your  brother  ?  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment  as  if  reflecting; 
and  then  looking  all  around,  as  if  to  ascertain  that  we 
were  alone,  he  whispered  : 

"  You  will  never  reveal  to  any  one  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  ?  " 

"  It  will  not  be  within  my  power  to  reveal  anything 
after  you  have  finished  with  me,"  I  replied  with  a 
smile  that  was  the  essence  of  ghastliness. 

"  True,  true ;  I  am  forgetting  that." 

Taking  up  the  stained  poniard,  he  bent  forward  in 
his  chair  and  whispered  between  his  white  teeth : 

"You  see  this  red  stain?  His!  It  is  a  twelve 
month  old — a  twelvemonth  this  very  night." 

Making  a  stab  at  an  imaginary  figure,  he  looked  at 


262 


The  Denouement! 

me,  and  said:  "Wait.  I'll  show  you  how  I  did  it 
presently." 

"  I  am  quite  willing  to  wait."  My  trembling  lips 
could  scarcely  frame  the  words.  '  Let  me  have  the 
whole  story — every  word.  I  shall  not  mind  if  you  take 
hours  over  it." 

"  You  shall  have  the  whole  story.  Oh,  you  shall  not 
lose  a  syllable  of  it !  Ho !  ho !  it  was  a  master-stroke 
of  craft.  Was  Borgia  or  Macchiavelli  ever  more  cun 
ning?  I  glory  in  the  deed.  I  love  to  dwell  on  it.  I 
act  it  every  night.  In  the  secrecy  of  my  chamber,  in 
the  quietness  of  the  picture-gallery,  I  rehearse  the 
whole  tableau  of  that  glorious  time.  They  would  not 
permit  me  to  do  this  in  the  day-time,  you  know,"  he 
said,  exchanging  his  excited  manner  for  one  that  was 
quite  grave  and  confidential.  "  They  would  call  me 
mad:  they  would  take  me  away — far  away  from  my 
studio  and  my  easel,  and  they  would  put  me  in  a  padded 
room,  and  I  should  paint  no  more.  But  I  am  too  cun 
ning  for  them,"  he  cried,  his  eyes  lighting  up  once 
more  with  the  fire  of  madness.  "  I  baffled  them.  They 
know  not  that  in  the  still  hours,  while  they  sleep, 
I  am  occupied  in  the  work  of  killing  Captain  Wil- 
lard.  He  takes  a  deal  of  killing,  too !  "  he  added,  re 
suming  as  if  by  magic  his  quiet  air  again.  "  Each 
night  I  slay  him ;  yet  each  night  he  returns  again, 
clamouring  for  the  death-stroke.  I  would  not  be 
lieve  it  if  I  did  not  see  it  for  myself.  Strange,  is  it 
not  ?  "  he  concluded,  turning  to  me. 

"  It's  extraordinary !  "  my  white  lips  gasped.  Which, 
if  it  were  true,  it  most  certainly  was. 

The  maniac  stared  at  me  a  few  seconds  with  a 
most  bewildered  air,  looking  as  if  he  had  forgotten 
something,  or  as  if  he  did  not  quite  understand  how  I 
came  to  be  in  my  present  position,  and  then  went  on : 

263 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  Yes,  this  red  stain  is  his.  I  slew  bim.  Why?  Let 
me  think,"  resting  his  elbow  on  the  table  and  pressing 
his  forefinger  to  his  brow  for  all  the  world  like  a  sane 
man.  "  Let  me  think ;  I  had  a  motive  for  it.  What 
was  it?  Love  of  my  art?  Yes,  that  was  it — art." 

He  paused  again,  as  if  he  found  it  difficult  to  collect 
his  shattered  memories. 

"  From  the  first  hour  of  my  calling  as  an  artist  it 
became  an  object  with  me  to  woo  and  win  a  woman 
whose  face  should  be  all  that  a  painter  could  desire. 
No  vulgar  model  who  displays  her  charms  for  hire 
would  do  for  me ;  my  inspiration  must  come  from  a 
pure  and  beautiful  maiden  who,  fired  with  the  spirit 
of  my  enthusiasm,  would  be  devoted  to  all  that  was 
high  and  noble  in  art  for  its  own  sake.  Her  lovely 
shape,  delineated  in  various  attitudes  on  the  canvas, 
should  be  the  making  of  my  pictures.  In  short,"  he 
added,  "  I  was  a  second  Zeuxis  in  quest  of  beauty." 

He  made  another  stop,  and  then  resumed : 

"  At  last,  after  long  years  of  waiting,  I  found  what 
I  had  sought.  Imagination  could  not  picture  a  form 
more  lovely  than  that  of  Daphne  Leslie,  and  I  resolved 
to  make  her  the  handmaid  of  art.  But  there  was  an 
obstacle  in  the  way.  That  obstacle  was  Captain 
Willard.  No  matter.  He  must  die ;  art  demanded  it, 
and  I  took  an  oath  that  the  eve  of  his  wedding  should 
be  the  last  day  of  his  life.  But  how  was  I  to  set  about 
it?  I  knew  what  suspicions  would  arise — what  a  hue 
and  cry  would  be  raised  by  society — if  a  distinguished 
officer,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from  India  to  wed  a 
rich  and  lovely  bride,  should  vanish  mysteriously  on 
the  very  eve  of  his  intended  marriage.  All  the  ma 
chinery  of  the  law  would  be  set  in  motion  to  discover 
the  author  of  the  deed.  Suspicion  would  be  sure  to  fall 
on  the  artist  who  was  known  to  entertain  feelings  of 

264 


The  Denouement! 

love  towards  the  bride.  '  It  was  Vasari  that  did  it/ 
men  would  say,  'and  jealousy  was  the  cause.'  I  must 
act  with  caution.  Ah !  I  would  forge  a  letter  in  Captain 
Willard's  handwriting — easy  task  this  for  an  artist ! — 
purporting  that  he  had  fled  of  his  own  accord  to  the 
Continent.  Ho !  ho !  it  was  bravely  done — bravely. 
No  one  ever  dreamt  that  he  was  dead,  and  that  Angelo 
had  killed  him." 

He  put  on  an  air  of  savage  pride  which  plainly  im 
plied,  "  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

Like  a  trembling  child  flinging  a  cherished  eatable  to 
a  dog  of  which  he  is  afraid,  I  flung  the  maniac  a  pro 
pitiatory  falsehood,  despising  myself  for  it  the  minute 
afterwards : 

"  I  always  thought  you  were  a  clever  fellow." 

He  accepted  this  tribute  of  admiration  with  the  air 
of  one  who  quite  deserved  it,  and  continued : 

"  Yes ;  I  would  so  arrange  the  affair  that  none 
should  ever  discover  what  had  really  happened.  I 
would  kill  him  and  travel  in  his  dress  to  Dover,  making 
it  appear  as  if  Captain  Willard  had  really  departed  for 
the  Continent.  I  was  not  unlike  him  in  build  and 
features,  and  by  painting  and  disguising  my  face  I 
could  transform  myself  into  his  very  image.  I  tried 
the  experiment  beforehand.  The  mirror  showed  me 
what  an  actor  the  stage  has  lost.  Even  you  were  de 
ceived  when  landing  from  the  steam-packet  last 
Christmas  morning.  It  was  I  whom  you  saw  on  the 
pier  amid  the  falling  snow." 

My  amazement  at  this  point  was  so  great  that  it 
made  me  forget  the  perilous  situation  I  was  in.  Spell 
bound  at  the  revelation,  I  stood  like  a  spectator  gazing 
at  some  actor  who  enthralls  him. 

"  His  death  furnished  me  with  a  noble  idea  in  con 
nection  with  the  picture  I  was  then  painting,  '  The  Fall 

265 


The  Weird  Picture 

of  Caesar.'  Did  not  Parrhasius  when  lie  wished  to 
paint  Prometheus  chained  to  the  rock  and  tortured  by 
the  vulture,  order  one  of  his  slaves  to  be  fettered,  and 
the  bosom  of  the  shrieking  captive  to  be  laid  open,  that 
he  might  paint  the  agony  of  Prometheus  in  all  its 
glorious  reality?  Gods!  what  a  picture  that  must  have 
been  !  Oh,  that  I,  too,  could  have  by  me  a  man  just  slain, 
with  the  red  blood  distilling  from  the  wounds !  What 
a  glorious  model  it  would  be !  Its  image  transferred  to 
the  canvas  w^ould  be  the  making  of  my  picture.  What 
realism  it  would  exhibit !  This  work  at  least  would 
not  be  called  mediocre  by  the  cold  critics.  Ah !  bright 
thought!  Captain  Willard  shall  be  my  model.  The 
very  stroke  that  deprives  a  rival  of  life  shall  be  the 
means  of  elevating  me  to  fame.  Could  vengeance  take 
a  sweeter,  a  more  subtle  form  ?  " 

It  seemed  an  age  since  Angelo  had  begun  his 
recital,  but  as  the  church-bells  had  not  pealed  the 
quarter,  I  knew  he  had  not  yet  been  fifteen  minutes 
over  it.  My  ears  were  keenly  alert  for  any  sound 
that  might  indicate  that  help  was  approaching,  but 
everything  was  still  and  quiet  outside  the  tower. 

"  I  met  Captain  Willard  late  on  Christmas  Eve  re 
turning  from  Daphne's  house.  I  asked  him  to  come 
to  my  studio  for  a  few  minutes :  '  I  have  a  surprise  for 
you,'  I  said.  So  I  had.  As  I  spoke  I  had  to  turn  my 
face  from  him  to  hide  the  light  of  triumph  in  my  eyes. 
He  came  willingly  enough,  talking  of  the  happy  mor 
row.  We  were  alone.  I  led  him  to  a  picture  on  an 
easel.  '  A  present  for  your  bride ;  do  you  like  it  ?  '  I 
said,  standing  behind  him.  Oh,  what  a  thrill  was 
going  through  me !  'Yes,'  he  replied — his  last  word ! 
'  Well,  how  do  you  like  that? '  I  cried  as  my  weapon 
descended.  Hatred — love — fame  nerved  my  arm  with 


266 


The  Denouement! 

a  triple  power,  and  I  struck  him  down — down — down. 
This  is  how  I  did  it." 

At  this  point  the  maniac  sprang  to  his  feet  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning,  and,  lifting  the  dagger  on  high, 
made  a  swift  downward  stab  at  an  ideal  figure.  My 
heart  gave  a  great  leap,  for  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
strike  me. 

"  With  one  loud  cry  he  dropped — thud !  Oh,  that 
cry !  It  rings  in  my  ears  still.  It  was  the  sweetest  music 
to  me.  I  stood  over  him  with  my  dripping  weapon 
ready  to  deal  him  a  second  stroke,  and  a  red  drop  fell 
on  his  vest.  I  wanted  him  to  cry,  to  move,  to  rise,  that 
I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  striking  him  down  once 
more.  But  he  never  moved  after  that  one  stroke,  and 
I  took  him  up  in  my  arms  and  flung  him  down  again 
that  I  might  enjoy  the  luxury  of  the  sound." 

Dropping  the  dagger,  he  illustrated  his  words  by 
going  through  the  motion  of  flinging  a  body  to  the 
ground.  Anything  more  devilish  than  his  manner  I 
had  never  seen. 

"  And  he  fell  thus,  and  lay  in  this  manner — so." 

And  here  the  maniac  flung  himself  backward  with 
his  arms  aloft,  and  dropped  to  the  floor  so  swiftly  and 
naturally  that  I  marvelled  he  did  not  hurt  his  head  on 
the  yellow-sanded  stone.  And  there  he  lay  in  silence 
for  a  few  seconds,  with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  limbs 
rigidly  extended  in  imitation  of  a  dead  body. 

I  thought  of  the  figure  in  the  grey  cloak  that  Fruin 
had  seen  lying  on  the  floor  of  the  picture-gallery.  That 
figure  had  been  none  other  than  the  mad  artist,  whose 
diseased  imagination  gloried  in  the  still  hours  of  night 
in  rehearsing  the  terrible  drama  of  last  Christmas  Eve. 
His  monomania,  in  fact,  had  taken  the  shape  of  a  sub 
jective  reslaying  of  the  slain,  united  to  an  objective 
wearing  of  his  victim's  dress.  Instead  of  destroying 

267 


The  Weird  Picture 

that  evidence  of  his  guilt,  he  had  retained  George's 
clothing,  and,  as  his  subsequent  ravings  showed,  re 
garded  it  as  a  memento  of  his  own  cleverness. 

The  artist  rose  to  his  feet,  and  flung  himself  back  in 
his  chair  again,  apparently  exhausted  by  his  emotion. 

"  Cruel  ?  "  he  gasped,  staring  at  me,  and  striving  to 
palliate  the  deed  by  the  example  of  others.  "  Cruel  ? 
If  Giotto  stabs  his  living  model  on  the  cross  that  he 
may  paint  a  crucified  Christ,  if  Parrhasius  damns  his 
slave  to  torture  that  he  may  produce  the  agony  of  Pro 
metheus  in  all  its  realism,  may  I,  too,  not  have  my  vic 
tim?  Cruel?  It  was  a  sacrifice  to  art.  Churchmen 
have  burned  each  other  for  the  glory  of  God.  Art  is 
my  god.'' 

And  the  maniac  lifted  his  clenched  hand  aloft  as  if 
defying  Heaven. 

"  My  rival  was  lying  at  my  feet,  dead.  I  wanted  his 
clothing  for  my  purpose,  so  I  stripped  him.  Gods ! 
what  a  figure  for  an  artist !  But  he  had  received  only 
one  wound  as  yet — Cassar  had  many — so  I  dealt  him 
some  six  strokes  or  more.  How  the  red  blood  spouted 
up !  Oh,  those  wounds  !  '  Poor  dumb  mouths ! '  How 
eloquently  they  will  speak  from  the  canvas !  What  a 
divine  picture  I  shall  produce !  '  II  Divino '  will  de 
serve  his  name  at  last.  Already  I  hear  the  voice  of  the 
public  saying,  '  What  a  genius  this  Vasari  is ! '  Ah ! 
that  reminds  me.  You  have  not  yet  seen  my  noble 
work  of  art.  You  shall.  'Tis  behind  that  tapestry." 

Evidently  the  maniac  did  not  know  that  the  picture 
had  been  removed.  I  trembled  lest  he  should  rise  and 
discover  its  absence. 

To  my  mental  agony  was  added  physical  suffering, 
due  to  the  unnatural  position  of  my  arms.  For  the 
sake  of  relief  I  had  often  moved  them  to  and  fro  and 
up  and  down  at  the  back  of  the  pillar.  I  was  now 

268 


The  Denouement! 

moving  them  farther  round  than  they  had  been  before, 
when  my  wrists  came  in  contact  with  something  sharp. 
Feeling  with  my  fingers  as  well  as  I  could,  I  discovered 
that  a  part  of  the  column  had  crumbled  away  with  time 
and  presented  a  rough,  ragged  edge.  An  idea  darted 
into  my  mind.  An  idea?  Say  an  inspiration  rather. 
My  wrists  were  not  in  contact — the  breadth  of  the 
pillar  prevented  that — there  was  a  distance  of  about  a 
foot  between  them.  The  silken  band  that  secured  me 
was  drawn  in  a  tight  slip-knot  round  one  wrist,  and, 
proceeding  to  the  other,  encircled  it  in  the  same  man 
ner,  and  then  hung  downwards  trailing  on  the  floor. 

Now  if  I  could  but  bring  the  band  connecting  my 
two  wrists  across  the  sharp  edge  of  this  stone,  steady 
attrition  would  tear  it  into  two  portions,  and  I  should 
be  free.  With  some  difficulty  I  worked  the  twisted  silk 
into  the  requisite  place,  and  then  began  as  vigorous  a 
friction  as  my  cramped  position  would  allow,  dreading 
every  moment  lest  the  madman  should  perceive  my 
motions  and  detect  their  cause. 

Though  bending  all  my  energies  to  the  task  before 
me,  I  tried  at  the  same  time  to  give  a  listening  ear  to 
the  artist,  but  I  am  of  opinion  that  my  further  report  of 
his  utterances  is  far  from  being  a  faithful  one. 

"  I  donned  my  rival's  attire.  I  was  no  more  Angelo : 
I  was  the  Captain.  How  well  his  dress  became  me! 
Observe  my  military  cloak,  my  martial  stride !  See  my 
painted  scar — my  brown  hair  and  beard !  I  had  pre 
pared  for  all  this  weeks  beforehand.  Who  that  saw  me 
now  would  take  me  for  poor  '  II  Divino,'  whose  pic 
tures  are  always  a  failure  ?  But  I  had  no  time  to  lose 
— the  Dover  train  would  be  starting  soon — and, 
leaving  my  divine  model  locked  up  in  the 
studio,  I  hurried  off  to  the  station,  posting  on  my  way 
the  forged  letter  that  was  to  tell  Daphne  that  her  bride- 

269 


The  Weird  Picture 

groom  had  fled  to  the  Continent.  Now  for  Dover  to 
prove  the  truth  of  the  letter.  The  booking-clerk,  the 
guard  of  the  train,  the  ticket-collector,  could  all  swear 
that  an  officer  in  every  way  resembling  Captain  Willard 
had  travelled  to  Dover  on  that  Christmas  morning. 
I  stood  on  the  pier-head  expressly  for  you  to  see  me ! 
I  knew  that  you  were  coming  in  by  that  steamer,  for 
Daphne  had  told  me  the  hour  of  your  intended  arrival. 
Ho,  ho!  his  own  brother  thrown  off  the  scent,  and 
ready  to  swear  he  had  seen  George  at  Dover,  at  the 
very  time  that  George  was  lying  dead  in  my  studio ! 
It  was  rare  glee  afterwards  to  listen  with  grave  face  to 
the  various  theories  propounded  in  my  presence  to 
account  for  Captain  Willard's  flight.  And  the  world 
calls  me  mad !  " 

I  was  not  aware  that  the  world  did  so;  but  if  it  did, 
it  had  ample  reason  in  his  wild  laugh,  and  demoniac 
glee.  However,  as  his  eyes  were  off  me,  I  worked 
away  desperately  at  my  silken  manacles. 

"  I  must  not  return  to  London  in  the  same  attire : 
that  would  be  to  contradict  the  letter ;  and  I  must  not 
return  in  my  own :  that  might  involve  me  in  suspicion, 
and  give  rise  to  awkward  questions  if  it  were  known 
that  I  had  been  at  Dover  on  the  morning  of  Captain 
Willard's  flight.  No !  I  would  return  disguised  in  a 
woman's  dress.  Ha !  ha !  how  often  have  I  heard  you 
discuss  the  identity  of  the  veiled  lady  who  travelled 
with  you  from  Dover  to  London !  Learn  now  that  the 
veiled  lady  is  before  you.  Now  you  know  why  she 
was  dumb.  I  could  not  disguise  my  voice  so  effect 
ually  but  that  you  might  recognise  it  next  morning 
at  the  wedding." 

To  say  that  I  was  amazed  at  this  revelation  is  but  a 
feeble  way  of  expressing  it.  Great  as  was  my  amaze- 


270 


The  Denouement! 

ment,  however,  it  did  not  check  for  an  instant  my 
working  for  freedom. 

"  There  was  living  then  at  Dover  an  old  friend  of 
mine  from  Rivoli — Matteo  Carito  by  name.  He  was 
caretaker  to  an  Italian  family  who  were  spending  their 
winter  abroad.  I  had  paid  him  a  chance  visit  the 
previous  week,  and  he  had  casually  told  me  that  he 
meant  to  spend  his  Christmas  with  some  Italian  friends 
in  London ;  he  thought  he  might  safely  leave  the  house 
for  a  day  or  two.  It  would  be  empty,  then,  on  Christ 
mas  morning.  Good !  Unknown  to  him,  I  procured  a 
key  that  would  open  the  front  door ;  in  the  secrecy  of 
this  house  I  would  assume  my  female  disguise.  Do 
you  remember  finding  me  outside  old  Matteo's  house? 
You  came  on  me  as  swiftly  and  silently  as  a  ghost.  I 
was  startled,  for  I  knew  you  were  his  brother — Daphne 
had  many  a  time  pointed  out  your  portrait  to  me — and 
I  thought  all  was  discovered.  But  I  baffled  you — I 
eluded  you — how  adroitly  you  know.  Matteo's  house 
was  my  asylum.  But  Matteo  had  not  gone  to  London 
after  all,  and  discovered  me  in  the  very  act  of  chang 
ing  my  attire.  He  wanted  to  know  how  I  had  gained 
access  to  the  house,  and  why  I  was  masquerading  in 
two  different  disguises.  For  a  minute  I  hesitated ;  I 
thought  of  braining  him  on  the  spot.  It  would  have 
been  rare  sport.  But  I  pitied  him — he  had  known  me 
from  childhood — and  I  concocted  some  story  that 
seemed  to  satisfy  him  at  the  time.  Would  now  that  I 
had  slain  him  there  and  then !  It  would  have  saved 
me  a  world  of  trouble.  He  discovered  it  all !  " 

I  was  still  tearing  away  fiercely  at  my  bonds,  confi 
dent  that  if  the  artist  continued  his  ravings  for  a  few 
more  minutes  my  hands  would  be  free.  The  friction 
of  the  silk  on  the  jagged  edge  of  the  pillar  produced  a 
sharp  rustling  noise,  but  the  artist  noticed  neither  the 

271 


The  Weird  Picture 

sound  nor  my  motions,  so  taken  was  he  with  the  story 
of  his  own  cleverness.  He  seemed  to  be  orating  more 
for  his  own  satisfaction  than  for  my  information. 

"  Yes,  he  discovered  it  all,"  continued  he.  "  I  had 
thought  myself  safe,  for  had  I  not  effectually  disposed 
of  the  body?  Steeping  it  in  chemicals  and  wrapping 
it  in  asbestos,  I  had  in  the  dead  of  night,  in  the  secrecy 
of  my  cellar,  committed  it  to  the  flames.  Ho !  ho !  A 
true  classical  funeral  that,  as  became  the  subject,  for 
was  he  not  the  pagan  Caesar  of  my  picture  ?  '  Vulcan, 
arise !  Vasari  claims  thine  aid.'  Ah !  what  a  glorious 
night  that  was  as  I  moved  round  the  funeral  pyre, 
pouring  on  oil  and  chanting  an  ode  from  Horace ! 
What  a  splendid  picture  it  would  have  made — '  A 
Pagan  Funeral ! '  How  I  regretted  that  I  had  not  pre 
pared  my  canvas  for  the  event !  But  it  was  too  late  to 
think  of  that.  Then,  one  dark  night,  on  some  lonely 
common,  I  scattered  the  ashes  to  the  four  winds.  Not 
a  trace  of  my  victim  left !  And  yet,  after  all  my  care 
and  caution,  that  old  dotard  of  a  Matteo  had  dis 
covered  my  secret — discovered  it  by  accident.  I  was  at 
Paris,  exhibiting  my  picture  to  admiring  thousands. 
Among  those  who  thronged  to  gaze  at  my  '  Caesar  ' 
was  a  Colonel  Langworthy,  but  just  returned  from 
India.  '  That  face  is  very  like  my  friend  Willard,  who 
disappeared  so  strangely  last  Christmas ! '  he  cried.  I 
turned  to  the  speaker,  and  whom  should  I  see  at  his 
elbow  but  old  Matteo,  with  his  great  eyes  staring  at 
me.  He  had  heard  this  chance  remark :  he  at  once 
divined  my  secret.  I  was  so  infuriated  that  next  day, 
when  the  Colonel  was  coming  to  take  a  second  view  of 
my  picture,  I  ordered  him  to  be  thrust  out — a  mad  act, 
for  it  got  into  the  newspapers,  and  confirmed  Matteo's 
suspicions.  Thenceforward  I  had  no  peace,  for  no 
bribe  would  stop  his  mouth.  He  was  forever  re- 

272 


The  Denouement! 

preaching  me.  I  had  made  him  an  accessory  to  a 
crime,  he  said.  His  conscience  troubled  him  for  having 
in  a  manner  aided  me  to  escape  on  that  Christmas 
morning  He  could  not  sleep  at  night.  Poor  fool !  He 
could  go  no  more  to  Mass  with  such  a  sin  on  his  soul. 
He  followed  me  to  Rivoli.  He  must — he  must  confess 
all  to  the  priest  Damn  him !  he  did !  That  was  why 
Father  Ignatius  refused  me  the  Mass  that  morning, 
and  Daphne  present,  too,  to  witness  my  humiliation ! 
It  was  that  that  caused  her  to  look  with  a  different  face 
on  me,  and  to  turn  from  my  love  with  scorn.  I  marvel 
now  that  she  is  still  living  when  I  recall  my  fury  at  her 
refusal.  She  was  nearer  to  death  then — nearer  to  her 
lost  George — than  she  had  been  since  her  bridal  morn 
ing.  My  old  nurse  said  I  was  mad  that  day ;  perhaps  I 
was.  No  matter.  Let  Daphne  refuse  me,  hate  me  as 
she  will,  she  cannot  recall  her  dead  hero  to  life.  There 
was  consolation  in  that  thought.  That  night,  as  I  was 
making  preparations  to  depart  from  Rivoli,  I  came 
across  his  grey  cloak.  I  always  carried  it  with  me.  It 
was  a  joy  to  gaze  on  it,  to  think  how  I  had  won  it.  It 
was  a  sign  of  my  triumph — it  was  a  proof  that  he 
would  trouble  me  no  more  with  his  rivalry.  I  put  it 
on,  for  I  loved  to  act  the  scene  over  again,  and  sallied 
out  in  it.  I  remember  now  with  what  glee  I  climbed 
crags  and  cliffs,  singing  and  dancing  along.  Aha! 
who  is  this  in  monkish  garb  that  rises  up  before  me  in 
the  moonlight?  Old  Matteo,  as  I  live!  Matteo! 
Matteo  the  betrayer!  He  sees  me,  he  turns,  he  flees. 
Ha !  ha !  what  feeble  steps  !  I  hear  him.  How  he  pants 
for  breath !  With  one  fierce  leap  I  am  on  him.  Ho ! 
ho!  my  hand  is  on  his  old  throat.  How  he  struggles 
as  I  force  him  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff !  How  he  clings 
to  me!  'Mercy!  mercy!'  he  screams.  Mercy?'  To 
him  who  had  robbed  me  of  my  fair  model  ?  He  could 

273 


The  Weird  Picture 

not  tell  any  more  tales  after  I  had  finished  with  him. 
From  the  cliff " 

The  artist  stopped  abruptly,  and  assumed  a  listening 
air.  Along  the  gravel  path  outside  came  the  tread  of 
many  feet  approaching  the  place  of  my  captivity.  My 
heart  throbbed  wildly  with  hope,  for  I  made  certain 
that  it  was  the  Baronet  and  my  uncle  coming  to  my  res 
cue.  It  was  not  so,  however.  Sounds  of  laughter,  the 
rough  voices  of  men  mingling  with  the  sweeter  tones  of 
women,  floated  upward  to  our  ears,  and  I  knew  then 
that  it  was  the  party  returning  from  the  vicarage. 
They  passed  quickly  beneath  the  window  of  my  prison 
— so  quickly  that  I  had  scarcely  time  to  realise  the  sit 
uation — and  by  and  by  were  standing,  so  I  judged,  on 
the  lawn  at  the  rear  of  the  Abbey.  Then  came  a 
silence,  followed  by  the  twanging  of  strings,  the  faint 
puffings  of  wind  instruments,  and  such  sounds  as  are 
usually  the  prelude  to  music,  and  I  knew  that  they 
were  going  to  sing  some  carols  for  the  edification  of 
the  Baronet  and  the  other  tenants  of  the  Abbey. 

I  glanced  at  the  artist.  Should  I  give  one  loud  shout 
for  aid?  I  hesitated,  lest  the  cry  should  cause  him 
to  sheath  his  dagger  in  my  breast.  I  resolved  first  to 
make  one  more  attempt  to  burst  my  bonds,  and,  exert 
ing  all  my  strength,  I  strained  desperately  at  the 
twisted  silk,  plunging  forward  as  far  as  its  limited 
length  would  allow,  careless  almost  as  to  whether  the 
eyes  of  the  artist  were  on  me  or  not. 

And  now  uprose  an  outburst  of  instrumental  melody 
which  lasted  for  a  minute  or  so,  and  then,  as  the  har 
mony  subsided  into  fainter  keys,  the  carol  began.  It 
was  a  solo. 

Whose  tones  were  those  that  now  rose  so  clear  and 
silvery  on  the  still,  frosty  air?  Was  I  doomed  to  die 
with  Daphne's  voice  ringing  in  my  ears  ?  She  thought, 

274 


The  Denouement! 

perhaps,  that  I  was  in  the  library  listening  to  her  voice, 
and  she  was  singing  with  more  than  ordinary  power 
and  sweetness.  How  quickly  her  joy  would  have 
turned  to  terror  had  she  but  known  my  real  situation ! 

"  Aha !  "  screamed  the  maniac,  so  loudly  that  it 
could  scarcely  fail  to  attract  the  attention  of  those 
without.  "  Aha !  The  spirits !  the  spirits !  I  knew  they 
would  be  here.  They  visit  me  every  night.  They 
know  the  work  that  is  going  on  here.  Listen — listen 
— listen  to  their  voices !  They  are  singing  your 
requiem.  How  bravely  they  chanted  at  the  foot  of  the 
grey  old  cliff  the  night  I  flung  old  Matteo  over !  What 
rare  music !  Ah !  here  they  come,  sliding  down  the 
moonbeams  !  God !  what  a  throng !  "  he  exclaimed, 
springing  up  excitedly  and  striking  at  the  empty  air, 
which  his  delirium  was  peopling  with  phantoms.  "Off ! 
off!  Do  you  not  see  them?  One  cannot  move — 
breathe  in  this  atmosphere !  " 

My  confused  mind  heard  as  in  some  weird  dream 
fragments  of  his  mad  ravings  mingling  fantastically 
with  the  words  of  the  carol : 

Christ  was  born  on  Christmas  Day, 
Wreathe  the  holly,  twine  the  bay, 
Christus  natus  hodie. 

The  Babe,  the  Son,  the  Holy  One  of  Mary, 
He  is  born  to  set  us  free — 

Latts  Deo !  the  band  that  connected  my  two  wrists 
gave  way.  I  was  free !  And  at  the  same  moment  the 
first  stroke  of  midnight  chimed  from  the  village  steeple. 

At  that  sound  the  artist  snatched  up  the  dagger  from 
the  table,  and  turned  towards  me. 

"  The  hour  is  come  !    Art  demands  her  victim." 

"  Stand  off,  you  devil,  or  I'll  brain  you !  "  I  cried, 
springing  forward  with  the  ends  of  the  purple  silk 
trailing  from  my  wrists. 

275 


The  Weird  Picture 

The  pistols  I  had  brought  with  me  lay  on  the  table 
beyond  my  reach,  for  the  artist  stood  between  them 
and  me,  and  in  default  of  any  other  means  of  defence  I 
snatched  up  the  massive  oaken  chair,  and  balanced 
it  aloft — a  feat  I  could  not  perhaps  have  performed  in 
ordinary  moments,  but  now  excitement  imparted  a 
magical  strength  to  every  fibre  of  my  body. 

"  Come  on !  I  am  free  now !  "  I  cried,  brandishing 
the  chair.  "Do  you  see  me?  Free — free — free!" 

In  the  sudden  joy  of  my  recovered  liberty  I  was  ten 
times  madder  than  my  opponent. 

The  artist  might  have  stood  for  an  image  of  amaze 
ment.  Silent  and  immovable  he  stood,  staring  at  me 
with  a  vacuous  look,  evidently  unable  to  comprehend 
how  I  had  gained  my  freedom. 

Then  suddenly  Daphne's  voice  was  drowned  in  a 
loud  tumult,  and  in  the  quick  trampling  of  numerous 
feet.  This  was  immediately  followed  by  a  succession 
of  strokes  on  the  massive  panels  of  the  door,  dealt  by 
some  heavy  implements,  accompanied  at  the  same  time 
by  the  sounds  as  of  persons  scrambling  up  the  ivy  out 
side  towards  the  casement.  Rescue  was  at  hand ! 

And  now  across  the  oblong  patch  of  moonlight  that 
lay  on  the  stone  floor  between  me  and  the  maniac 
appeared  some  dark  shadows,  and,  turning  towards  the 
casement  to  ascertain  the  cause,  the  artist  beheld  hu 
man  faces  peering  in  through  the  diamond-shaped 
panes.  A  moment  more  and  there  came  a  great  shiver 
ing  and  shattering  of  glass.  The  cold  night  air  swept 
with  a  rush  through  the  broken  panes,  bringing  with 
it  the  wild  crash  of  the  Christmas  bells,  a  tumult  of 
voices,  and  Daphne's  thrilling  scream. 

Peril  makes  some  men  mad.  It  made  Angelo  sane. 
He  realised  the  situation — realised  that  his  hated  rival 


276 


The  Denouement! 

was  slipping  from  his  power;  but  the  knowledge  of 
this  fact  only  made  him  more  desperate. 

"  Damn  you !  you  shall  not  escape !  "  he  cried  fierce 
ly.  "  I'll  have  your  life,  though  I  die  the  next  moment 
for  it!" 

With  the  dagger  gleaming  aloft,  he  darted  on  me. 
Measuring  him  with  my  eye,  I  swung  the  chair  round, 
and  tried  to  bring  it  down  on  his  head,  but  he  eluded 
the  blow  by  springing  deftly  to  one  side. 

The  robe  of  tragedy  is  often  sewn  with  the  threads 
of  comedy.  The  chair  intended  for  the  artist  lighted 
instead  on  his  unfinished  picture,  and  went  sheer 
through  the  canvas,  overturning  the  easel,  and  inflicting 
more  damage  to  the  painted  Colosseum  in  two  seconds 
than  old  Time  has  been  able  to  inflict  on  the  solid 
original  in  well-nigh  two  millenniums. 

"  My  picture !  Oh,  my  picture !  "  cried  the  artist. 
"  You  have  destroyed  it !  " 

Petrified  with  dismay,  he  gazed  on  the  ruins  of  his 
work  of  art,  oblivious  for  the  moment  of  everything 
else.  Taking  advantage  of  his  surprise,  I  sprang  for 
ward,  and  seized  him  by  the  throat  with  such  force 
and  energy  that  he  toppled  backwards,  and  measured 
his  length  on  the  floor  of  the  cell.  I  fell  with  him. 

"  That's  it !  Bravo  !  Hold  him  down !  "  cried  a 
voice,  which  I  recognised  as  the  Baronet's.  "  We'll  be 
with  you  in  an  instant. 

Sir  Hugh,  my  uncle,  and  some  others  were  standing 
on  the  window-ledge,  striving  to  effect  an  entrance  by 
forcing  asunder  the  slender  cross-bars  of  the  case 
ment. 

The  artist  lay  extended  on  the  floor  of  the  cell.  My 
knee  was  on  his  chest,  and  with  one  hand  I  grasped 
him  by  the  throat,  and  with  the  other  pinioned  to  the 
floor  his  hand  that  held  the  dagger.  I  tried  to  keep 

277 


The  Weird  Picture 

him  in  this  position  till  aid  should  come,  but  with  a 
strength  almost  superhuman  he  rose  to  his  feet,  drag 
ging  me  with  him,  and,  grappling  with  each  other,  we 
swayed  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  moonlit  cell. 

"  I  always  hated  you,"  he  gasped.  "  But  for  you  I 
might  have  won  the  love  of  Daphne.  You  shall  not 
escape  me !  " 

He  made  frantic  efforts  to  reach  me  with  the  dagger, 
but  I  clung  heavily  to  the  arm  that  held  it,  impeding 
his  power  of  action.  At  length  with  a  sudden  effort 
of  strength  he  flung  me  off,  but  as  he  did  so  the  cross 
bars  of  the  casement  gave  way,  and  three  human  bodies 
were  projected  through  it  in  a  most  ungraceful  fashion, 
and  fell  on  all-fours  to  the  floor. 

For  one  second  the  artist  stood  irresolute,  and  then 
darting  towards  the  secret  opening,  he  disappeared 
from  view. 

The  cell  seemed  to  swim  around  me,  a  mist  passed 
before  my  eyes,  and  then  dimly  as  in  a  dream  I  became 
conscious  that  I  was  reclining  in  an  oaken  chair,  sup 
ported  on  one  side  by  my  uncle  and  on  the  other  by 
Daphne.  The  door  of  the  tower  was  wide  open,  hang 
ing  obliquely  on  one  hinge.  Someone  was  putting  a 
lighted  match  to  the  wick  in  the  antique  iron  lamp,  and 
its  bright  flame  lit  up  a  crowd  of  faces  that  were  bent 
upon  me  with  wondering  looks.  At  one  end  of  the  cell 
some  men,  a  helmeted  police-officer  among  the  num 
ber,  were  kneeling,  fingering  and  clawing  at  the  stone 
slab  which  the  artist  had  pulled  down  after  him  to 
cover  his  retreat. 

"  It  must  be  chained  down,"  I  heard  the  Baronet 
saying.  "  Pass  the  crowbar.  Damn  it !  the  fellow  will 
escape." 

"  His  eyes  are  open,"  I  heard  Daphne  saying.  "  Oh, 
Frank,  you  are  not  hurt,  are  you  ?  " 

278 


The  Denouement! 

She  was  now  kneeling  beside  me,  her  lovely  eyes  full 
of  tenderness  and  sympathy.  It  was  worth  all  the 
agony  I  had  endured  to  be  the  object  of  her  sweet  pity. 
I  tried  to  speak,  but  emotion  checked  my  utterance,  and 
I  could  reply  to  her  question  only  by  an  assuring 
smile. 

"  You  are  looking  like  the  very  dead,"  said  the  doc 
tor.  "  Here,  take  a  drop  of  this.  This  will  revive 
you." 

"  Is  my  hair  grey?"  I  murmured,  putting  my  hand 
to  my  head,  as  if  it  were  possible  to  ascertain  by  the 
sense  of  touch.  "  Do  I  look  old  ?  I  feel  like  a  captive 
liberated  from  the  Bastile.  How  long  have  I  been  in 
this  prison  ?  Years  upon  years  ?  " 

In  a  few  words  I  told  my  shuddering  listeners  of  the 
artist's  designs  on  me.  From  regard  to  Daphne,  I 
reserved  the  story  of  George's  end  for  another  occa 
sion. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  remarked  the  doctor,  gravely  shaking  his 
head.  "  I  saw  this  morning  that  he  exhibited  all  the 
symptoms  of  insanity.  Genius  and  madness  are  often 
allied." 

"  Well,  thank  Heaven  you  are  safe !  "  exclaimed  my 
uncle  fervently ;  "  though  more  by  your  own  efforts 
than  by  ours,"  he  added. 

"  Have  you  only  just  returned  from  the  magis 
trate's?  "  I  asked  him. 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  ingratitude  in  human  nature, 
and  even  in  the  first  joy  of  my  deliverance  I  felt  a  dis 
position  to  reproach  my  uncle  for  what  I  considered  a 
very  tardy  rescue,  totally  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  if 
my  rescuers  had  appeared  earlier  on  the  scene  there 
would  have  been  an  end  of  me,  for  the  artist  at  sight 
of  them  would  have  effected  his  deadly  purpose  with 
out  my  being  able  to  offer  any  resistance. 

279 


The  Weird  Picture 

"  Yes,  we  have  only  just  returned,"  he  answered, 
understanding  the  motive  of  my  question.  "  Every 
thing  that  possibly  could  went  wrong.  The  carriage 
broke  down  half  way  from  the  Manse,  and  when  we 
set  off  to  finish  the  journey  on  foot  we  missed  our  way 
on  the  moors  and  were  a  long  time  in  finding  it  again. 
When  we  did  reach  the  Abbey  and  did  not  see  you 
about  we  guessed  where  you  were  and  came  at  once  to 
the  tower.  We  heard  enough  to  assure  us  that  some 
thing  very  serious  was  the  matter,  and  as  we  could  not 
hope  to  make  our  way  in  empty  handed  we  ran  back 
for— 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  coming  from  outside 
of  the  cell,  and  turning  quickly  I  saw  that  the  slab  had 
been  lifted  up  revealing  a  stairway  beneath. 

"  Turn  your  lantern  down  here,  Wilson,"  cried  the 
Baronet  excitedly,  "  and  lead  the  way.  Look  sharp,  or 
he'll  escape  after  all." 

The  constable  obediently  went  down  the  open 
ing,  followed  by  Sir  Hugh,  my  uncle  and  two  or 
three  other  men.  Thinking  that  I  had  as  good  a  right 
as  any  to  join  the  pursuit,  I  rose  with  the  intention  of 
following  them,  but  at  Daphne's  entreaty,  I  forbore, 
and,  leaving  the  cell,  we  both  walked  across  the  lawn 
to  the  Abbey,  all  unconscious  of  the  tragedy  that  was 
happening  under  our  very  feet. 

For  the  steps  down  which  the  artist  had  fled  opened 
into  a  stone  passage,  the  walls  of  which  were  dripping 
with  moisture  and  stained  with  horrid  fungi.  At  the 
foot  of  the  steps  Sir  Hugh  came  upon  a  recess,  where 
they  found  a  grey  cloak,  and  a  gentleman's  dress  suit. 
The  Baronet,  with  a  look  of  inquiry  on  his  face, 
pointed  out  these  things  to  my  uncle. 

"  Yes,"  said  my  uncle,  "  those  are  his  clothes  right 
enough.  They  are  what  he  wore  the  last  time  we  saw 

280 


The  Denouement! 

him  alive.  It  is  clear  that  Vasari  murdered  him  that 
night,  and  he  has  kept  these  clothes  by  him  ever  since. 
Look,"  he  went  on,  "  this  is  where  he  was  stabbed," 
and  he  pointed  to  a  cut  in  the  back  of  the  coat.  As  he 
was  handling"  the  garment  something  bright  fell  from 
the  breast  pocket,  and  stooping  to  pick  it  up  he  recog 
nised  the  ring  which  Daphne  had  thrown  into  the  well 
at  Rivoli. 

"  We  mustn't  stop,"  the  Baronet  said.  "  Hold  up 
the  light,  Wilson,"  and  the  whole  party  again  stumbled 
forward  along  the  passage. 

"  Where  does  it  lead  to  ? "  the  constable  asked,  peer 
ing  cautiously  into  the  darkness  before  him. 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you,"  Sir  Hugh  replied.  "  I 
have  never  seen  the  place  before.  It  must  be  the  nuns' 
corridor  of  ancient  days.  I  always  understood  it  had 
been  bricked  up.  By  the  way,  we  must  go  carefully. 
If  I'm  right,  there  must  be  a  deep  chasm  ahead — the 
Nuns'  Shaft,  and  if— hullo,  what's  that?" 

Distant  a  few  paces  in  front  was  a  human  figure 
crouching  low  against  the  wall. 

'''  There  he  is,"  several  voices  cried  at  once. 

"  Take  care,"  said  my  uncle.  "  Remember,  he  is  a 
madman ! " 

At  this,  the  whole  party  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"  Yield  in  the  King's  name,"  shouted  the  constable. 
But  whatever  effect  the  King's  name  may  have  upon 
the  sane  it  cannot  be  expected  to  exercise  much  influ 
ence  upon  a  maniac.  Rising  to  his  feet,  with  a  wild 
laugh  that  sounded  unearthly  in  the  echoing  passage, 
the  madman  ran  on  into  the  darkness,  with  the  pursuit 
hot  behind  him. 

Suddenly  he  checked  his  headlong  pace,  and,  turn 
ing  swiftly,  confronted  his  pursuers.  The  light 
held  aloft  by  the  constable  fell  full  on  his  despairing 

281 


The  Weird  Picture 

face,  and  to  their  dying  day  those  who  saw  Angelo 
Vasari  at  that  moment  will  never  forget  the  sight. 

With  a  gesture  in  which  rage,  defiance  and  hopeless 
ness  were  all  mingled,  he  sprang  into  the  air.  For  one 
moment  he  was  visible,  in  the  next  he  had  vanished. 
No  sound  broke  from  him.  In  absolute  silence,  more 
terrible  than  any  cry,  he  was  swallowed  by  the  black 
ness  beneath  him. 

"  By  God,  he's  gone !  "  the  Baronet  shouted,  and 
there  was  fear  in  his  voice.  "  Stop,  stop,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  or  you  are  all  dead  men." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  shouted  some,  catching  the  infection 
of  his  fear. 

"  He  has  leaped  down  the  shaft  of  the  old  silver 
mine." 

Thus  died  Angelo  Vasari,  and  perhaps  it  was  better 
that  he  should  perish  by  suicide  than  be  taken  alive 
only  to  fall  into  the  hangman's  hands  or  drag  out  a 
long  life  in  some  asylum  for  the  insane.  That  the 
story  could  be  kept  from  the  general  public  was,  of 
course,  impossible,  and  the  sensation  caused  at  the 
inquest  by  the  telling  of  the  manner  of  his  death  was 
enhanced  by  the  account  I  had  to  repeat  of  how  my 
brother  came  by  his.  Vasari's  studio  in  London  was 
examined,  and  evidence  was  discovered  in  the  cellar 
corroborating  his  assertion  that  he  had  burnt  the  body 
of  the  man  whom  he  had  sacrificed  to  his  insane  de 
sire  for  fame. 

As  for  the  picture  itself,  Sir  Hugh  at  first  thought  of 
destroying  it,  but  finally  decided  to  keep  it  on  account 
of  its  marvellous  merit  as  a  work  of  art.  It  was  re 
moved  from  the  gallery,  and  hung  by  itself  in  a  room 
where  it  could  be  inspected  by  the  privileged  few. 
Daphne  could  never  bring  herself  to  look  at  it.  She 

282 


The  Denouement! 

did  not  want  the  idealised  image  of  her  lover  to  be 
marred  by  the  ghastly  presentment  of  his  dead  likeness. 
Whose  wife  Daphne  is  now,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to 
say.  We  were  married  in  the  spring  at  Silverdale,  and 
quiet  though  we  wished  the  wedding  to  be,  the  church 
was  crowded  with  people  from  far  and  wide  who  were 
eager  to  see  the  girl  whose  beauty  had  been  the 
cause  of  such  a  tragedy.  To  efface  from  her  mind  as 
far  as  possible  the  memory  of  that  tragedy  is  the  chief 
object  of  my  life  and  I  am  glad  to  think  I  do  not 
wholly  fail.  She  wears  in  addition  to  her  wedding  ring 
a  second  golden  band,  the  ring  that  she  threw  into  the 
well  at  Rivoli.  It  is  to  be  buried  with  her,  she  says. 
May  that  day  be  far  distant,  is  my  constant  prayer. 

THE    END 


283 


By  the  Author  of  "  The    Weird  Picture" 

THE 

SHADOW  OF  THE  CZAR 

By  JOHN  R.  CARLINO 

Illustrated.     12mo.     $1.50.     Fifth  Edition 


"  An  engrossing  romance  of  the  sturdy,  wholesome  sort, 
in  which  the  action  is  never  allowed,  to  drag,"  (St.  Louis 
Globe-Democrat)  best  describes  this  popular  novel.  "The 
Shadow  of  the  Czar"  is  a  stirring  story  of  the  romantic 
attachment  of  a  dashing  English  officer  for  Princess  Bar 
bara,  of  the  old  Polish  Principality  of  Czernova,  and  the 
conspiracy  of  the  Duke  of  Bora,  aided  by  Russia,  to  dis 
possess  the  Princess  of  her  throne. 

It  is  not  an  historical  novel — the  author  makes  his  own 
events  alter  the  manner  of  Anthony  Hope,  and  the  Boston 
Herald  is  of  the  opinion  that  it  "  excels  in  interest  Anthony 
Hope's  best  efforts."  "  Rarely  do  we  find  a  story  in  which 
more  happens,  or  in  which  the  incidents  present  themselves 
with  more  suddenness  and  with  greater  surprise,"  says  the 
New  York  Sun. 

"Mr.  Carling  has  a  surprising  faculty  of  making  it 
appear  that  things  ought  to  have  happened  as  he  says 
they  did,  and  as  long  as  the  book  is  being  read  he  even 
succeeds  in  making  it  appear  that  they  did  happen  so," 
says  the  St.  Louis  Star. 

"  The  Shadow  of  the  Czar  "  fairly  captivated  two  coun 
tries.  In  England  the  Newcastle  Daily  Journal  says  it 
"transcends  in  interest  'The  Prisoner  of  Zenda.'" 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  .fef  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
BOSTON,  MASS. 


A  New  Romance  by  the  Author  of 
"  The  Shadow  of  the  Czar" 


THE  VIKING'S  SKULL 


By  JOHN   R.  CARLING 
Illustrated  by  Cyrus  Cuneo.     350  pages,     l^mo.     $1.50 

A  tale  full  of  stirring  surprises.  —  Philadelphia  North 
American. 

A  capital  tale  of  mystery  and  detection  of  crime  and 
retribution.  The  ingenuity  with  which  its  intricacies  are 
threaded  is  really  wonderful. —  New  York  Times  Saturday 
Review  of  Books. 

It  is  a  remarkably  lively  story,  with  a  novel  mystery, 
wrought  out  of  old  Norse  history,  but  the  scene  is  modern 
England  for  the  most  part,  and  all  the  characters  belong 
to  to-day. —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

The  reader  who  once  becomes  entangled  in  its  meshes 
will  sit  up  until  the  small  hours  to  finish  it.  It  is  a 
romance  pure  and  simple  from  the  outset,  and  refreshing 
to  a  degree.  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

An  engrossing  tale  of  love,  adventure,  and  intrigue,  the 
reading  of  which  makes  hours  fly  on  the  wings  of  minutes. 
An  ingenious,  dramatic,  interest-compelling  romance.  — 
Boston  Herald. 


LITTLE,    BROWN,    <5v    CO.,    PUBLISHERS,    BOSTON 
At  all  Booksellers 


Mr,  Oppenheim's  most  Romantic  Novel 


THE 
MASTER  MUMMER 


By  E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM 

Author  of  "A  Prince  of  Sinners,"  "Anna  the  Adventuress," 
'\Mysterious  Mr.  Sabin,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  F.  H.  Townsend.     12mo.     $1.50 

The  dexterous  craftsmanship  in  the  manipulation  of  an 
absorbing  plot  that  characterizes  Mr.  Oppenheim's  work  is 
here  applied  to  the  most  romantic  theme  he  has  as  yet  con 
ceived.  The  strange  adventures  that  befel  the  young 
Princess  of  the  imaginary  kingdom  of  Bartena,  who  is 
kept  out  of  the  way  in  order  that  her  place  may  be  filled 
by  her  cousin,  appeal  strongly  to  the  reader.  Her  tem 
porary  guardian  killed,  and  knowing  nothing  of  her  parent 
age,  the  young  Princess  is  befriended  by  three  bachelors 
who  stand  Godfather  to  her,  heedless  of  her  high  estate. 
The  many  intrigues  to  obtain  possession  of  her,  the  part 
Which  the  mysterious  "  Master  Mummer "  plays  in  the 
girl's  life,  and  the  perils  which  her  lover  encountered  furnish 
material  for  an  original  modern  romance  of  unusual  interest. 


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The  New  Novel  by  the  Author  of  "  Truth  Dexter" 


By  SIDNEY  McCALL 

Author  of  "Truth  Dexter" 
19mo.     Decorated  cloth,  420  pages.     $1-50 

It  is  now  four  years  since  the  sweetness,  freshness,  and 
tenderness  of  "Truth  Dexter"  captivated  and  delighted 
the  reading  public.  The  gifted  author  has  devoted  these 
years  to  the  careful  writing  of  a  second  story,  which  it  is 
assuredly  safe  to  call  a  masterpiece. 

The  greatest  value  of  "The  Breath  of  the  Gods"  lies 
perhaps  in  its  unusual  power  as  a  story,  with  a  strong, 
original,  and  unexpected  plot,  closely  knit  and  vividly  un 
folded,  and  replete  with  surprises  and  striking  situations. 

The  setting  of  the  background,  partly  in  Washington 
and  partly  in  Japan,  gives  scope  for  the  author's  brilliant 
pictures  and  sympathetic  interpretations  of  nature. 

There  is,  however,  in  "  The  Breath  of  the  Gods  "  no  sacri 
ficing  of  the  dramatic  story  to  an  attempt  at  exposition  ; 
Japan  is  not  an  aim,  but  an  incident. 


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